


Hunter's Caress

by Ltleflrt



Category: Desperado's Caress (Carla Simpson), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Blow Jobs, Demon possession, Enemies to Lovers, Gunshot Wounds, Hand Jobs, Historical Inaccuracy, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Outdoor Sex, Outlaw Dean Winchester, Outlaw Sam Winchester, POV Alternating, POV Floating, Pinkerton Detective Castiel, Serious Injuries, Supernatural Elements, Tags May Change, Warnings in the notes, references to rape and murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2020-03-26 15:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 161,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19008859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ltleflrt/pseuds/Ltleflrt
Summary: Castiel Jameson won't rest until the outlaw who murdered his brother faces justice, and Dean Winchester is the only man alive who can help him track the villain down.  Some say Winchester is a cold-blooded killer himself; others say he'd been wronged his whole life.  All Castiel knows is that the desire glinting in Dean's green eyes is even more dangerous than he is.  Castiel fights to keep his mind on business, but during the long nights on the trail with the dangerously handsome hunter he finds himself dreaming of yielding to Dean's illicit kisses and losing himself in lawless passion.Dean Winchester is about to hang when Castiel saves his neck with his crazy plan.  But dying might be better than spending day and night playing nursemaid to such an infuriating city slicker.  He appreciates the stubborn detective's desire for justice, but he'd appreciate Cas a lot more if he'd stop being a lawman long enough to just be a man.  He certainly has all the right equipment.  Dean aches to run his fingers through Castiel's dark hair, yearns to know how Castiel's golden skin will feel against him.  And before the coming of the next dawn, Dean vows to teach him the pleasures and sweet rewards of a Hunter's Caress.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic in the spring of 2014, originally planning to submit it for the DCBB. A few chapters in I realized that it's a much bigger project than I thought it would be (it's okay if you laughed at that), and I set it aside and wrote Hope on Fire instead. It's been simmering in the back of my brain ever since, and last week I started poking at it again. I think it's time to get it finished :)
> 
> This is based on a 1991 romance novel called Desperado's Caress by Carla Simpson. It's one of my favorite books, and I've probably read it at least 20 times. It's out of print, but if you want a fun romp in the desert, I highly recommend it if you can find a copy. I'm very heavily borrowing from its plot, which is why I'm tagging it as a second fandom, even though probably no one has even heard of it.
> 
> As per usual, I hope to post weekly. Also as per usual, that schedule will probably be shot to hell by Chapter 3 ;D
> 
> I typically write alternating POV, but the book this is based on has floating POV. I may try experimenting with it. I'm not sure yet. We'll see. I apologize for weirdness in advance. Like when I switched from writing past tense to present tense, there'll be a lot of fuckups, I'm sure.
> 
> Also, the cheesy Summary is pulled straight from the back of the book. Please bask in the glory of Bodice Ripper Blurbs lol

_El Paso_ _, Texas_

_June, 1881_

 

When the clamor of saws and hammers die away there’s only a short period of silence before the air fills with the murmur of voices.  The day had dawned warm and cloudless and despite the rising heat a crowd gathers during the early morning hours.  Women herd curious children while vaqueros wander in idly from the edges of town.  Peasants prod sleepy burros laden with baskets filled with vegetables.  The shopkeeper emerges from his store to watch the commotion, and from the saloon next door a slurred voice calls “Poor Dale Guthrie!”

“Bad luck!” The same man crows.  “Hangin’s are bad luck.  Always avoided ‘em myself.”

Big, raw boned Ellie Johnson steps out of the boarding house and smooths her skirts with work roughened fingers.  “Had to build a new scaffolding,” she proclaims to the timid school marm beside her.  “Old one burnt.  I could hear ‘em hammerin’ on it all night long.  The Marshal is real nervous, and some folks think Guthrie’s old gang will come for him.”

At Miss Ava’s alarmed gasp, Ellie nods.  “You mark my words.  There’ll be trouble before they drop ‘im.”

Miss Ava, playing hooky like her students, goes pale.

Almost as one the crowd of fifty or so that had gathered during the morning hours, waiting with a mixture of curiosity and impatience, turn and stare at the Marshal's office as it slowly opens.  

“Ten o’clock,” Mr Andrews of Andrews Hardware remarks.  He snaps his watch closed.  “I always thought they hung ‘em at dawn.”  Beside him, Mrs Andrews makes a disapproving noise.  She turns on a heel and retreats inside the store.  The door slams behind her.

Ellie elbows Miss Ava.  “It’s all because of him.”  She gestures to the well dressed man who stands on the boardwalk nearby but apart from the crowd.

“Now what would a gentleman like that have to do with the likes of Guthrie, I wonder?  Been stayin’ at my place.  I tried to find out what his business is here, but he wouldn’t say nothin’.  And the Marshal ain’t been talkative about it either.”

“Wouldn’t say _anything,_ ” Miss Ava corrects her as she turns to glance in the stranger’s direction.

“That’s what I said,” Ellie grouches.

If the gentleman in question feels the weight of their gazes, he shows no sign.  Like the rest of the spectators his eyes follow the heavily armed Marshal and his deputies as they escort their prisoner to the hangman’s scaffolding.  The crowd slowly parts to let them pass.

As the Marshal and his prisoner approach the steps of the scaffold a heavy set man stumbles into their path.  His clothes, hair, and beard suggest that he has a very distant relationship with soap and water.  “Damn fine hangin’!” the man compliments as he weaves back and forth on his feet.

“We ain’t hung him yet,” the Marshal snaps.  He gestures angrily at one of his men.  “Get him outta here!  Somewhere he can sleep it off!”

The Marshal gives the rest of his deputies a hard look as the town drunk is removed.  Then he gives Guthrie a shove up the steps to the platform.  “Keep everyone back,” he calls to his men.  “I don’t want trouble.  Let’s just get this over with.  Where’s the priest?”

“Aquí.  Here, señor.” The priest emerges from the crowd, and the sun glints off the sweat beading his brow.  He wheezes as he makes his way up onto the scaffolding, clutching his thick brown robes at the front with one hand, and a bible and crucifix in the other.

He begins to pray, the plea for atonement and forgiveness spoken in Latin.  Before he gets out barely a handful of words, Guthrie’s head jerks up and spits at the portly little man.

“I don’t want none of your holy words, priest.  God’s mercy ain’t waiting for me.  Save your gibberish for someone else.”

The priest stares up at Guthrie in horror over the blasphemy and crosses himself with trembling fingers.  “May God have mercy on your soul,” he whispers before shrinking away, shaking his head gravely.

Guthrie laughs, a chilling sound that cuts through the blazing heat.  When the noose is pulled down and tightened around his neck his laughter trails off, but he grins widely at the watching crowd.  There’s no fear in his eyes, only a burning madness.

The Marshal stands back and nods at the inconspicuous figure who waits at the far end of the scaffolding with his hand resting on an unweathered wooden lever.  Guthrie sees the gesture and smirks at the man.  Then his head snaps around and cold eyes latch onto the finely dressed gentleman at the back of the crowd.  Many people will later gossip about how his eyes turn black as sin, and others argue that it’s only a trick of the light.  “I’ll see you in Hell!” Guthrie snarls.

The mechanism is released.  The noose cinches around Guthrie’s throat as the door falls open below his feet.

If anyone were paying attention to the fancy man at the back of the crowd, they’d see him flinch and go pale.  His lips move, shaping another ancient Latin prayer with far more power than the priest's.  But all eyes are on the spectacle before them.  The rope pulls tight, and sways as Guthrie’s body twitches and jerks.  His eyes bulge from their sockets, turning red as blood vessels burst open within them.  

Despite the clear sky a shadow seems to spread over the crowd.

Gasps and soft curses rise up from the crowd that had gathered to witness the moment.  Women shield the eyes of their children and mutter prayers.  In front of the hardware store Mr Andrews wipes beads of cold sweat from his upper lip with the sleeve of his shirt.

“You satisfied?” Mrs Andrews asks sharply from the door behind him where she’s reappeared.  She seizes him by the arm and jerks him back into the store.

“Well, I never would’a believed it,” Ellie mutters with disappointment.  “I thought sure we’d have us a gunfight on our hands.”

Her gaze fixes briefly on the elegantly dressed stranger and she dips her head toward the ashen-faced school marm at her side.  “Seein’ a man hang sure don’t seem to bother him none.  I sure would like to know what a fancy man like him has to do with Guthrie.

“Them’s some mighty fine threads,” she adds thoughtfully.  Guess that’s what a fancy city gentleman wears to a hangin’.”  She snorts a laugh, but Miss Ava doesn’t seem to share her humor.  She’s still staring at the slowly swinging rope, a handkerchief pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide and horror-stricken.

Seeing her distress, Ellie decides to intervene.  “C’mon honey, I got something over at my place that’ll fix you right up.  Fancy tea, ordered from a catalogue.  Just arrived on the train last week.”  She wraps a thick arm around the small woman and guides her toward the boarding house.

The Marshal nods to one of his men.  “Tell Purdy we got a customer for him.  Just a plain box’ll do.  Let’s get him buried--no marker.  Don’t want no trouble.”

His deputies disperse the remaining spectators and the Marshal turns to approach the visiting gentleman.  

“Damn fine hangin’!” the drunk roars in vague approval from the barred window of his cell in the Marshal’s office.

The Marshal stops at the bottom step of the boardwalk that lines the storefronts at the side of the street.  He squints against the glare of the sun and adjusts his wide-brimmed hat as he looks up at the man.  “You satisfied?”

The man had arrived in El Paso ten days ago, and the Marshal still doesn’t know anything about him other than what he can observe.  The man is tall and fit.  And probably rich to boot if the fine cloth and cut of his suit is any indication.  Somehow the man’s clothing is still immaculate, without a spec of the dust that clings to everything in the desert town.  His dark hair is combed neatly, his jaw clean shaven.  And he’s got a stare that can cut a man down to size.  Everything about the man says he’s a pampered city slicker, but that hard stare tells another story.

Dark blue eyes flick down to meet the Marshal’s gaze briefly before going back to watching Guthrie’s body being lowered from the scaffolding.  “Yes, Marshal.  I’m satisfied.”  

For several long moments they simply stand there.  After a while the Marshal clears his throat.  “There’s paperwork to do.  You’ll need a signed affidavit about Guthrie.”

At first there’s no response, and he’s not sure the man had heard a word he’d said.  “Sir?”

The weight of the man’s gaze fastens on him once more and the Marshal realizes he’d heard every word.  “Yes of course,” he says softly, almost as an afterthought.

“And there’s also the reward,” the Marshal adds.  It’s the first time he’s ever had to remind someone about reward money.  He thinks back to his original impression of the gentleman when he’d first walked into his office over a week ago--that it was something more than merely supplying Dale Guthrie’s location, more than seeing a man wanted for a laundry list of atrocities brought to justice, more than money.

The man’s head jerks toward him, his expression thunderous.  “No.”

The anger sets the Marshal back.  It reminds him of something else he’d noticed on their first meeting.  All the fancy clothing and refined manners were a facade, carefully put up around a pillar of blazing hot anger.  He’d witnessed it when he’d been reluctant to go after Guthrie, and it had surprised him then.  More so now.  Nobody walks away from that much money.

Taking a deep breath, the man visibly pulls himself together.  His expression is a mask of control despite the smile now curving his lips.  “I don’t accept blood money,” he explains softly.  “And it’s against company policy.  Please donate it on my behalf.  I’m sure the school could benefit.  And the mission; the priest is collecting for the town’s orphans.”

Nodding, the Marshal decides to let the matter go.  He knows a few good ways to use the money that would be appreciated by the residents of the little town.  “You leaving soon, then?” he asks.

“Yes,” the man responds with a more natural smile.  “On today’s train.  My work here is finished”

“Just what sorta work…?” the Marshal prods.

The man denies him with a tiny shake of his head.  “Thank you, Marshal.  For everything.”

With that, he turns and disappears into Ellie Johnson’s boardinghouse.

Upstairs in the sparsely furnished room that overlooks the street, he packs his small trunk.  His shaving kit, and a small notebook, pen, and inkwell are shut into a wooden box and tucked away at the bottom.  He carefully folds his extra clothing before putting it away.  

A breeze from the open window lifts the curtains and brings relief from the searing heat.  It brushes a badly wrinkled piece of paper from the top of the dressing table to the floor.  

He bends to pick it up.  Large, block print boldly spells out WANTED--DEAD OR ALIVE across the top.  Below that were once the likeness and names of four men, along with the chilling account of their crimes.  The paper is torn, the images of two men ripped away.  He stares down at it for a long moment before carefully tearing away the likeness of Dale Guthrie.  

He smooths the wrinkles as he stares down at he remaining picture.  “And then there was only one,” he whispers.

The silence is split by the train whistle, announcing that it is time for him to finish up and leave.  He folds the wanted poster and slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket.  

A knock at the door brings his head up, and a small voice calls from the other side.  “The train is here, señor.”

He opens the door to find the small orphan boy Ellie employs waiting for him.  “I can take your trunk,” the boy offers excitedly, anticipating the pesos to be earned.

“Yes, I’m ready.” He smiles down at the boy and steps back from the door.  The trunk is almost as large as the boy, and he suppresses a smile at the sight.

When the boy disappears through the door, he returns to the depths of the room and opens the small side table near the bed.  At the back of the drawer his fingers brush over cool steel.  The pistol fits snugly in his hand.  He checks the small, short barrelled revolver to make sure it’s loaded then slips it into the special holster under his sleeve, then he turns to leave.

He pauses to glance out the window.  The scaffolding he’d watched the town’s carpenters build through the long hours of the night and morning stands abandoned, but in his mind he can still picture Dale Guthrie’s body hanging from the rope.  He remembers the darkness of the moment, the shadows seeming to bleed from Guthrie’s mouth, and he shivers in the rising heat.

He only has one thought.  Dale Guthrie has finally paid for his sins.

Castiel Jameson gives the room one more sweeping glance to make sure he’d left nothing behind.  Then he slips out of the room, closing the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt to writing a POV that floats between the protagonists, sorry for the weirdness :)

_Tombstone_ _, Arizona_

Dean Winchester is going to die.

He knows _where_ he is going to die, he knows _how_ he is going to die, and he knows _when_ he is going to die.

After a lifetime of dodging bullets, of facing down gunslingers and posses, and even a federal sheriff--just to name the mundane--Fate has caught up with him.  Death has always been a nebulous concept.  Something that would happen only if he got careless or stupid.

But now, it is very specific.  On August 15, 1881, at precisely noon, he is going to be hanged by the neck until dead.

It strikes him with a dark sort of irony.

Long fingers, accustomed to the balance of a gun or the heft of a silver blade, run through sandy brown hair, making it stick up in all directions.  More than a week without shaving has left his jaw shadowed with the beginnings of a beard, and dark smudges under his eyes highlight their bright green color, but leave him looking gaunt.

He’s spent the last week scrambling for an escape plan.  If nothing else, he wants to get his brother out of there.  It isn’t fair that Sammy is languishing in jail with him, awaiting his own execution.  Guilt eats at Dean when he thinks of how his brother would still be in Boston attending university if it weren’t for him.

So much for taking care of his little brother.  

He lets out a long breath, trying to think about something other than how badly he fucked up this time.  For once he’s almost glad their dad is dead.  He can’t imagine facing John Winchester right now and seeing the disappointment in his eyes.

He’ll probably get to see the disappointment on the other side of the pearly gates, if he doesn’t end up in a hotter, more southerly location.  It’s not a comforting thought, so he decides to stop thinking it.

Attempting to not think about his problems leads Dean to remembering the heat instead.  If there is such a place as Hell On Earth it is Arizona in the middle of August.  It doesn’t even cool down when the sun dips below the horizon.  The heat becomes slightly less oppressive, but by the time the temperature drops enough to be any kind of relief, the sun is coming back up and baking the world all over again.

Sweat trails down Dean’s temples, dampening his hair.  It runs in tiny rivulets down his sides, soaking his shirt, pooling under him, making him itch and doing nothing in the slightest to cool him down.  A nice breeze might help, but the only window in the tiny cell he currently shares with his brother isn’t even as big as his head.  It’s positioned so high up on the wall that any tiny current of air that might slip through has no way of reaching them anyway.  He can’t help but wonder why the people who built the place even bothered.

The least they could do is hang him at dawn when his brain doesn’t feel like it’s trying to boil out of his ears.  Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be done?  All the stories he’s ever heard of hanging say it’s done at dawn.   _Did you hear about ol’ Winston?  Strung up at dawn.  Heard he pissed hisself afore they even knocked the stool out from under ‘im._ Or there’s the story about Crazy Pete where the rope snapped his neck but didn’t kill him.  They had to manhandle him back up onto a horse, listening to him cuss the whole time, and then hang him again.

Dean thinks at that point they owed poor Pete a bullet in the head.  Would have been far more merciful.  He really hopes that if something shitty happens at his own hanging, that he’s dead before he can be embarassed.

“Fuck, it’s hot.”

There’s no response to his irritated muttering.  Dean turns his head on the hard surface of the stone bench he’s lying on to see that Sam is still pacing in front of the cell door.  Due to his long legs and the narrow confines, Sam only has room to take four small paces in each direction, but he’s taking full advantage of what little space he has.

Dean watches him pace for a moment, noting the wrinkle between his little brother’s brows as he tries to think his way out of the situation they’ve found themselves in.  Sam still has hope that they can get out of it.

That’s Sammy, though.  Ever the optimist.  Dean, on the other hand, knows they are well and truly fucked.

“Pace a little faster, Sammy,” Dean grumbles as he turns back to stare at the ceiling above him.  He shifts in a vain attempt to get more comfortable on the hard stone.  “You might whip up a breeze in here.”

Sam doesn’t pause in his prowling, although he does throw a glare in Dean’s direction.  “This isn’t funny, Dean.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Dean mutters under his breath.  Louder he says “It’s a little funny.  I mean, here we’ve saved the whole town, and as thanks we’re getting executed for it in less than an hour.”

Sam finally stops and his glare intensifies.  “How is that funny, exactly?”

“I’m sure God’s laughing,” Dean quips.

“You don’t believe in God.”  Sam resumes his restless movements.

“Yeah, well if He’s real, He’s a huge asshole.”  Dean shifts again and looks up at the window, wishing for a breeze.  He doesn’t bother praying.  Sam is right about Dean’s lack of faith.

It’s pretty hard to believe in God after everything he’s seen.

Before he can start to dwell on unpleasant memories, footsteps interrupt his thoughts.  Deputy Kubrick appears moments later, flanked by two other men.  He smirks at them through the bars.  “How was your last meal, boys?”

Sam stops pacing and glares wordlessly at the other man.  Dean swings his legs off the makeshift bed and sits up.  His boots come down next to he plate of slop that Kubrick brought them earlier.  It’s barely edible from the smell, and completely untouched.  “I’m still waiting for my steak and potatoes,” Dean answers with his most charming smile.  “I gotta say, Kubrick.  The service here leaves much to be desired.  I’d like to complain to the management.”

Kubrick’s mouth twists with irritation, and Dean smiles wider.  There’s no way he’ll give that asshole the satisfaction of knowing just how worried he is.

Because honestly, he’s beginning to believe there’s no way out of this.  He and Sammy are going to hang.

And that just pisses him off, because while he doesn’t exactly have a death wish, he certainly knows that he doesn’t have the potential for a long life span.  Not with the work he does.  But he would have preferred to go out with a bang.

Dying with a noose around his neck is just plain unmanly.

“Yeah, well if you didn’t eat it’s too late now,” Kubrick huffs.  He produces a ring of keys and shoves one in the cell door’s lock.

Dean tenses in anticipation, but the deputies pull their guns from their scabbards in preparation for anything he might try.  He tries not to grind his teeth in frustration as they come in and force Sam face first against the wall so they can bind his hands behind his back.  Just to be a contrary bastard, he keeps his tone jovial.  “What’s the matter, Kubrick?”  Afraid we’ll try to make a break for it?”

One gun swings around and gets shoved in Dean’s face when he starts to stand.  “Ah, ah.  No sudden moves, Winchester.”  Kubrick’s grin is all pearly white teeth and malice.  “Or do whatever.  No one will bat an eye if I shoot you in an escape attempt.”

Kubrick must see something in Dean’s expression because he cocks the hammer back on the gun.  Without taking his eyes from Dean’s he turns the barrel until it’s pointed at Sam’s back.  He watches Dean with a hungry intensity, silently daring him to make a move.

_Fuck._

Kubrick only shows mild disappointment when Dean doesn’t give him a reason to pull the trigger.

Dean’s mind is racing again, but as he’s pulled out of the cell he continues to come up blank.  Well, not completely.  Questions keep blaring through his head.   _Where is Bobby?  Had he not gotten the telegram Dean sent him when they were arrested?_

He half suspects that Kubrick hadn’t sent the telegram.  One of the dead bodies at Dean’s feet _had_ been Kubrick’s cousin, after all.  Dean wouldn’t be surprised if the guy is holding a grudge.  He seems like the type.

He thinks about trying to explain the situation.  The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  But he knows from experience that no one will believe him.  And it’s really too late anyway.

Sunlight blinds Dean as he and Sam are shoved and prodded outside and he has to blink several times before his eyes adjust.  When his vision clears, the first thing he sees is the crowd gathered around the gallows scaffolding.  He knew they were there; there’s already been several hangings already.  He’s heard the clap of the trap door opening and the mix of cheers and horrified gasps from the people gathered to watch.  He’s managed to not think about it, but now he’s faced with the audience gathered for his death, and acid churns up from his stomach and burns the back of his throat.

The crowd parts for the deputies and their charges, but they aren’t silent or passive.  Their jeers and insults come from every direction.  Dean holds his head high, and focuses on his destination, wrapping his pride around him like a cloak.  They may be ignorant of what he’s done for them, but these people are safe because of him and his brother.  He’s a goddamn hero, whether they like it or not.

What strength he’s able to pull from that thought leaves him when they reach the scaffolding.  The tiny flame of hope that Dean had been harboring that the gallows would be too rickety to do the job dims to embers when the steps don’t even squeak under his feet.  And when he and Sam stand side by side, a noose dangling before them, the flame goes out completely.

They are going to die.

Dean tries to muster up enough anger to glare out at the sea of fascinated faces in front of them, but all he manages is a pang of sadness.  He watches a young man put his son up on his shoulders so he can see above the crowd.  The little boy’s curly blonde hair catches the sunlight, making it look like a halo above his large and curious eyes.  Near them Dean sees a group of young women in multi-colored gingham dresses clustered together, giggling and gossiping behind their fans.  A sick feeling twists in his stomach when more than one of them looks at him with naked lust darkening their eyes.

He and Sam saved this town.  Yet the people are treating this execution like a Sunday picnic.  That thought is confirmed when he sees several people carrying blankets and baskets, as if they plan to lay out lunch right there in the town square.

He tears his eyes away from the onlookers and turns to Sam.  His little brother is breathing evenly, looking out at the crowd gathered to watch them kick the bucket.  Anyone who doesn’t know him would think he’s completely calm, but Dean practically raised Sammy.  He can see the fear written in every line of his overgrown body.

“Hey.  Sammy.”  His brother doesn’t acknowledge him so Dean tries again.  “Sammy!  Look at me.”

Sam finally turns to him, eyes wide with barely contained panic.

Dean hadn’t really planned on what he was going to say.  He catches sight of the single noose from the corner of his eye and realizes they’re going to be hanged one at a time.  “I’m going to go first, Sammy,” Dean says gruffly.  He’ll insist.  Because he’ll do anything to prolong Sam’s chances to escape, even if only for the few minutes it takes for the noose to choke the last breath from him.

“Dean-”

He steamrolls over Sam’s protests.  “You gotta promise not to watch, okay?”

Sam’s eyes widen further, in surprise this time, and his head tilts in confusion.  “What?”

“Just… don’t watch.”  Dean holds his gaze firmly, willing him to understand.  “I don’t want you to be afraid.”

That actually earns him a wry snort of laughter.  “A bit late for that, Dean.”

“Just promise me, Sammy.”

Sam swallows and his eyes grow glassy with unshed tears.  He nods jerkily and presses his lips together in a valiant attempt to hold his emotions in.

Dean smiles.  “Good.  I’m proud of you, Sam.  You know that, right?”

Sam nods again, his eyes warmer.  His voice is unsteady when he speaks.  “Thanks, Dean.”

A rough hand in the center of his back shoves Dean forward.  He’s been so focused on Sam that he hadn’t heard Kubrick’s speech to the crowd listing off his crimes and his sentencing by a judge that Sam and Dean had barely had a chance to see, much less plead their case before.  He’s nudged onto the trap door, and the noose is placed around his neck.

More acid swirls in Dean’s stomach, and he suddenly wishes he’d eaten at least a few bites of the last meal he’d been given, even if it was barely edible.  It doesn’t seem right to die on an empty stomach.

A man in a preacher’s suit stands next to him, cradling a bible.  His bald pate is bright pink under the noonday sun, and sweat trickles down around his temples and ears.  He looks far too miserable to be up there on the platform with a couple of criminals, but his voice is gentle when he speaks.  “Would you like to say a prayer with me, my son?”

Dean’s eyes narrow at the man.  He wants to tell him yes, just to gain a few more minutes, in hopes that he can come up with something, _anything_ that would get him out of this mess.  But he shakes his head.  Even now, he can’t bring himself to pray.  And he isn’t hypocritical enough to ask someone to do it for him.  "No thank you, padre."  His voice is hoarse with all the emotion boiling inside him.

The preacher wags his head sadly and steps back, making sure he isn’t standing on the trapdoor that creaks slightly under Dean’s weight.

The crowd in front of the wooden platform has gone still, but Dean can still pick out the little things.  The dark haired woman with wide brown eyes chewing her bottom lip nervously.  The man who lifts his his hat to run fingers through his scraggly hair before setting it back on his head.  The slow rise and fall of people’s chests as they breathe.

When the noose is snugged around Dean’s neck, it itches against his skin.  His shoulders ache from the way they are pulled behind him.  His wrists burn from the coarse rope binding them.  Bile rises in his throat and he swallows it back just as a black cloth bag is pulled over his head.

It smells like horse which makes him think of his sweet girl, Baby.  He wonders what will happen to her now.  She’s already been sold, along with all his belongings.  Will her new owners love her the way he does?  Will they feed her sugar cubes and brush her till she shines?  Will she miss him?

Thinking of Baby leads his thoughts back to a little valley in Wyoming, nestled in the Wind River mountains.  He thinks of smoky mares with darkly spotted rumps, colts also sporting the distinctive markings of the Appaloosa toddling between their knees.  If he concentrates he can remember the colors and sounds and the clean scent of rain in the air.  Regret punches him in the gut.  He hasn't been back to to the ranch in years.  Not since before… well before.  He'd taken Baby from the herd and left what was left of his father's legacy with Bobby and Ellen so he could return to the true family business.

Footsteps echo across the platform behind him, stopping where he remembers seeing the release lever for the door beneath his feet.  Dean just barely holds in the whimper that’s crawling up his throat, clawing frantically for freedom.  He won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him die scared.  He’s a Winchester, and even if he isn’t going out in a blaze of glory, he’s going to fuckin’ act like it anyway.

The air, which has so far been completely still, stirs.  A strong breeze kicks up, reaching cooling fingers through his clothing.  Dean takes a deep breath, even though it’s clogged with sweat and dust, and sighs into the black cloth covering his face.  At least he’s getting a little relief from the heat before-

“Stop!”

He jerks with surprise at the shout.

“I said stop the execution!”

Dean thinks he recognizes the voice.  It’s a young man named Alfie who works in the Marshal’s office.  Dean thinks he’s a deputy, but he’s so skittish that it’s hard to tell for sure.  It’s strange to hear such a commanding tone from the little guy.

The crowd erupts into curious murmurs.  The wood below Dean’s feet shakes as someone runs up the stairs, boots thumping hard against the wood.  Furious whispers behind him make him turn his head in an attempt to hear better, but the cloth muffles them enough that he can’t tell what’s going on.

“God dammit!”  That’s Kubrick.  And whatever has him sounding that pissed off can only be good news for Dean and Sam.

A moment later the cloth is jerked off his head and Dean is again blinking away tears from the sudden burn of sunlight.  Kubrick stands right in front of him, expression thunderous as he pulls away the noose as well.  “Don’t get your hopes up, Winchester,” he barks as he grabs Dean and starts shoving him down the stairs.  Dean can see another deputy leading Sam back to the sheriff’s office ahead of him.  “We’ll have you back up here quick enough.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.  The crowd is loud, and Dean’s ears buzz uncomfortably.  Nausea makes him swallow, and then swallow again when bile continues to rise up, burning the back of his throat.  

Nearby he hears a woman complain in a high pitched, nasally voice that feels like claws against Dean’s frayed nerves.  “They ain’t stoppin’ it are they?  I fried chicken for this!”

He huffs a laugh.  He doesn’t blame her for being upset.  Fried chicken sounds delicious right now.

Kubrick rushes ahead to the office he’s anything but gentle as he herds Dean through the crowd.  He shoves Dean through the office door, making him stumble slightly.  He probably would have lost his balance if not for the bruising grip on his elbow.

After being out in the bright noon sun, Dean’s eyes take their time adjusting to the dimness again, but he can make out a man standing next to Kubrick.  And he can tell by the way Kubrick has his arms crossed over his chest that the deputy is very unhappy with whatever is going on.

“Looks like the rumors that you’ve got an angel sitting in your pocket are true, Winchester.”

Dean’s eyes are just starting to adjust, but he recognizes the man’s voice easily.  Marshal Virgil Earp had avoided them since their sentencing; probably because he can’t stand to watch friends die for what ain’t really a crime.  

Earp had met John Winchester during the war, and while he’s too busy protecting humans from each other to become a Hunter, he knows enough about the Winchester family business that he makes a decent contact for supernatural activity.  He knows that Dean and Sam had taken out a small nest of new vampires, but there had been a witness to the “murder” and his hands had been tied during the trial.

That doesn’t mean Dean isn’t going to give him shit for it, though.  He glares at the other man.  “More like the devil’s own luck, Marshal.  Wanna tell me what the hell is going on?”

“That’s what I’d like to know as well,” Kubrick grumbles.

Earp casts a quelling look in Kubrick’s direction before ordering him to unbind the brothers and then get his ass out of the office.  Kubrick looks like he wants to argue further, but he grudgingly cuts Dean and Sam’s wrists loose, then spins on a heel and leaves as ordered.  Earp turns back to the brothers.  “Got someone here that wants to talk to you.  Name’s Jameson, from all the way out in Denver.  And I want you to hear him out.”

Dean rubs the raw skin of his wrists, frowns at the Marshal’s cryptic words and looks up at Sam.  His brother is pale, probably still shaken from being far too close to the hangman’s noose, but curiosity burns in his hazel eyes when he meets Dean’s gaze.  He shrugs with one shoulder.   _Couldn’t hurt, right?_

Which is true.  The alternative is probably to get walked right back out to the gallows, and Dean really doesn’t want that.  “Alright,” he agrees gruffly when he returns his attention to the Marshal.  “Let’s hear it.”

A shadow moves against the back wall, materializing into a man.  Dean grinds his teeth, irritated that he hadn’t even noticed he was there.

The man standing before him is not anyone he recognizes.  And Dean would have remembered someone like him.  Tall, although an inch or two shorter than Dean, and broad shouldered under a long brown jacket that has to be torture to wear in this heat.  What Dean can see of his clothing under the jacket is fine; a dark wool suit, ash gray waistcoat, and pristine white shirt under a bolo tie.  Tousled dark brown hair, a strong, stubbled jaw.  Sinfully kissable lips.  And Jesus _Christ_ those eyes.

Dean isn’t sure he’s ever seen quite that shade of blue before.  Even in the dim interior of the jail, they remind him of sapphires, changing hue as the meager light hits them from different angles.  Then again, Dean has just had a near death experience, so everything appears sharper and more real than ever before.

Castiel stands tall under the Winchester brothers’ scrutiny, knowing men like these will take measure of his worth quickly.  He’d already had his chance to observe the brothers while they’d blinked in the dim light of the Marshal’s office.  The taller brother had gained his attention first.  It’s hard _not_ to notice someone so tall.  His dark hair is shaggy, in desperate need of a cut and hanging over his eyes.  Beneath a week of scraggly beard growth he looks very young.  If it weren’t for the way he holds himself and the towering height, Castiel wouldn’t suspect him as a seasoned outlaw.

When he’d turned his attention to the shorter brother, his breath had caught in his throat.  He looks exactly like what he is.  An outlaw.  A killer.  His eyes hard, his expression dark with calculation and threat.  Castiel has no doubt he’ll see any available chance for escape and will take it.  Probably without mercy for anyone who stands in his way.

He’s handsome as sin, with glittering green eyes and sandy golden hair.  His rough beard does little to hide the hard angles of his face, or the muscle twitching in his jaw as he’d stared down the Marshal.  

The weight of that hard gaze is fully on Castiel now, and it takes an effort not to step back into the shadows again.  Even standing in the depths of the Marshal’s office, surrounded by armed lawmen, the man exudes danger.  The fact that he’s weaponless does nothing to detract from the dangerous aura.

Castiel is not easily cowed though, and he stands his ground.  These men’s lives are in his hands; he has nothing to fear.  “You are the Winchester brothers?”

“Who’s asking?” the shorter brother growls.

“Dean,” the younger man admonishes.

Castiel’s eyes flick to the taller brother.  He must be Samuel Winchester.  He’s not the reason Castiel is here, but he’ll be useful for leverage if what Castiel knows about Dean Winchester is true.

He approaches the man he’s really here for, Dean Winchester, and looks up into his stare.  The power emanating from Dean sends a shiver down Castiel’s spine.  He’s also caught off guard when he realizes that Dean’s face isn’t as dirty as he’d first thought.  The specks across the bridge of his nose are freckles.

Castiel deliberately changes his focus back to Dean’s eyes and refuses to acknowledge even in the privacy of his own mind how captivating they are.  “Hello, Mr. Winchester.  I’m here to offer you a deal.”

Jameson’s words immediately put Dean on the defensive.  Deals are never good news, crossroads demon or not.  “Oh yeah?  What kind of deal?”

Blue eyes narrow at Dean, and damn if that isn’t somehow even more attractive.  “One that will save you and your brother’s life.”

It’s probably going to be something too good to be true, but at the moment Dean’s willing to do anything to get them out of this mess.  Short of selling his soul, and this ain’t exactly a crossroads, so that option is out anyway.

“You gonna continue being cryptic about it, or are you gonna explain?” Dean drawls.

“I need your help finding someone,” Jameson answers.  “If you agree to my proposal, the good Marshal will release you into my custody.  And when we’ve completed our mission, you and your brother will receive full pardons.”

At Dean’s side, Sam gasps, and he knows his own mouth has dropped open with surprise.  Since they’d received their sentence he’d been hoping for a chance to escape, but he’d known the price that’s been hanging over their heads for years would still follow them around.  A pardon though, that would practically be a miracle.

He’d be free.   _Sam_ would be free.

“Who do we need to find?” Sam asks breathlessly.

Jameson glances at Sam, but turns the burning intensity of his gaze back to Dean.  For a long moment he doesn’t answer.  He stares at Dean like he’s trying to gauge the worth of his soul.

 _Not much_ , Dean wants to tell him.  He keeps the thought to himself.

“The man I’m looking for,” Jameson finally says gravely, “is Alistair White.”

A swooping sensation fills Dean’s belly, and he physically recoils from the other man.  Before he can even form the words, he’s shaking his head.  “No.  No fucking way.”

“Mr. Winchester if you do not assist me with my search, your current sentence will be carried out.”

“Fuckin’ hang me then,” Dean hisses.  He steps back and his eyes dart around looking for an escape.  

There isn’t one.  Virgil looks relaxed where he leans against the desk, but he’s armed and his eyes glint warning.  Kubrick is probably right outside the door, and the rest of the place is full of more armed deputies, probably including Virgil’s brother, another friend but one that won’t hesitate to shoot either.

“Dean,” Sam says softly.

“No!” Dean swings around and glares up at his brother.  “Hanging would be a cleaner death than what this guy has planned for us.”

Sam tries again, reaching for Dean.  “Dean, this is our chance--”

Dean snorts and pulls just out of reach.  “For a slow and painful death.”

“--for freedom,” Sam finishes.  

If they survive.  And the odds are low.  Real fuckin’ low.  

“Dean.” Sam shuffles closer, hanging his head down until Dean is forced to meet his gaze.  “It’s our only chance.”

Closing his eyes, Dean takes a deep breath.  Then another.  The panic clawing up his throat slowly recedes.  Sam is right.  Well, mostly right.  They have a way off the gallows, and out of a cell.  It’s a step in the right direction.  A chance for survival that he needs to grab with both hands, if not for himself then for Sammy.

He opens his eyes and meets his brother’s urgent gaze again.  With the barest nod, he acknowledges Sam’s words.  “Okay, Sammy.  Okay.”

Dean turns to Jameson and gives him a jerky nod.  “Alright Mister.  You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Castiel is very careful to not show any signs of the relief washing through him.  Dean’s vehement denial had been a surprise, and he truly has no idea what he would have done if Dean hadn’t demurred to his brother’s arguments.  He’d thought offering the pardons would be enough.  What kind of man would prefer hanging to hunting down an outlaw?

One who knows intimately what kind of savage beast Alistair White is.  Which is exactly why Castiel is here.  

“Very good,” he says.  “We’ll leave in the morning.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Dean protests.  “None of this ‘we’ shit.  Sam doesn’t know how to find Alistair, so he ain’t going.”

“What?” Samuel nearly sputters, “Dean, no I’m not letting you--”

“You can’t go, Sam, and you know exactly why!”

“It won’t be a problem!” Samuel protests.  “I’m fine!  I’ve been fine for years!”

Castiel has no idea what the brothers’ disagreement is about, and he doesn’t very much care.  But he can see both of them digging in their heels for for the argument, and there’s no time for it.  Based on everything he knows about the Winchesters, they always ride together.  The only time they’ve deviated from that behavior was for the few months Dean rode with Alistair’s gang.  He’d assumed they’d both join him on his hunt, but really all he needs is Dean.

“If he doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t have to.” Castiel directs the words at Dean, cutting into their argument.  “He’ll need to stay in the Marshal’s custody until our task is completed and I can return to have the pardons signed.”

Samuel immediately starts shaking his head in denial.  “Absolutely not.”

Dean’s chin tilts up at a stubborn angle.  Castiel has seen mules with less determination in their eyes.  “Lock him back up, or I ain’t going.”

Castiel nods, and turns to address Marshal Earp.  “Marshal, if you would, please-”

“Now hold on!” Samuel grits out angrily.  He grabs Dean’s wrist, and gives Castiel a fierce look to rival his brother’s.  “I need to talk to my brother for a moment please.”

It’s a simple request, and if it will give them the opportunity to work out their disagreement, Castiel will be satisfied.  He gestures for them to continue, and steps back to give them a modicum of privacy.

Dean jerks away from his brother’s grip and hisses at him.  “Sam, this ain’t no run of the mill hunt.  The danger is--”

“More than two men can handle,” Sam hisses back.  “You need me.”

“I need you _safe,_ ” Dean counters.  His father’s voice echoes in his ears, _look out for Sammy, boy.  Watch out for your little brother._  The dull ache that usually accompanies thoughts of John intensifies at the idea of Sam’s voice becoming just a memory as well.  

Sam’s expression softens.  Peering down at Dean through his overlong hair, he looks more like the boy Dean used to know than the dangerous man he’s grown into.  “I know that.  Because I feel the same about you.” His voice drops even lower.  “I don’t want to lose you either, Dean.”

Ah god, there he goes pulling all the right strings.  Sometimes Dean hates that Sam has him all figured out, knows exactly how to get him to drop his convictions like hot potatoes.

But it ain’t happening this time.  Not if he’s going after Alistair.  “Sammy, you gotta think about yourself.  You’ll have a pardon.  You’ll be free, and you can go back home.  You’ll still have Bobby and Ellen and Jo… you don’t need me.”

Sam’s soft expression morphs into the pissy _don’t be an idiot_ scowl that Dean’s also very familiar with.  “I _am_ thinking about myself, Dean.  I’m safer with you.  Even without a price on my head, you know I’ll be hunted anyway.”

Shit.  Fuck.  God dammit.  He’s right.  And while Dean would trust the Earps with his life, he’s not so ready to trust them with Sam’s.  

There’s a flash of triumph in Sam’s eyes before Dean even says anything.  He knows he’s won, the little bastard.

 _Sorry, mama_ , he thinks.

“Fine,” he sighs.  He turns to Jameson and and confirms his agreement.  “We’re both in.”

Jameson dips his chin in acknowledgement.  “Very good.  I’ll make the arrangements for our departure.”  He addresses his next words to Earp.  “I’ll leave them in your custody for now, Marshal.”

Virgil smiles, obviously pleased with the meeting’s outcome as well.  “Of course.”

“Good day, gentlemen,” Jameson says before turning to make his leave.

“Wait,” Dean calls after him.  “Just who the hell are you?”

Castiel knows Dean isn’t referring to his name.  The introductions, brief as they were, had already been made.  There isn’t any reason not to tell him, and it just might reinforce how serious Castiel is about this.

“Castiel Jameson,” he says, then adds “Operative Jameson.  Of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.”  He smiles, and leaves the room.

Dean turns to stare at Virgil as the door closes behind Operative Castiel Jameson.

“Pinkerton?” Dean asks incredulously.  “He’s a damn Pinkerton agent?”

Dean can’t believe it.  For years he’s been running from the law, including several Pinkerton agents.  They had a reputation for being thorough and tenacious.  No one ever escapes them for long.

He shakes his head.  “Of all the damned luck,” he mutters disgustedly.  

Sam chuckles wryly.  “I guess we’ll just have to make our own luck now.”

Dean agrees.  It’s what the Winchesters always do.


	3. Chapter 3

“He said you looked like a couple of shaggy dogs, and smelled even worse.  And that’s a direct quote.”  Wyatt chortled after sharing that tidbit.

“Sounds pretty accurate,” Sam agrees.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we got fleas from that damn cell.”  He scrubs even harder at his overlong mop of hair before ducking under the water to rinse away the soap.

From where he sits shoulder deep in his own vat of warm sudsy water, Dean casts a glare at Wyatt who holds his hands up and grins as if to say _don’t shoot the messenger._  It’s not that Dean is opposed to baths.  Hell, he even agrees at the assessment about the state of his personal hygiene.  Circumstances lately haven’t exactly given him the opportunity to bathe.

But as pleased as he is to finally wash the layers of filth from his skin, he’s decidedly less so with the Jameson.  Castiel Jameson, Pinkerton Agent, left them in jail for hours, probably to give Dean time to ponder the merits of making the right decision about his offer.  Then he’d returned and started tossing out orders left and right.  One of which was to make “the prisoners” more presentable apparently.  Virgil and Wyatt didn’t seem to have the same objection to Jameson’s high handedness as Dean did.

Dean leans back against the iron rim of the vat and inhales deeply from the cigarillo Wyatt had given him to celebrate his “freedom”.  It’s a luxury he intends to enjoy as thoroughly as possible until Jameson returns to bark out more orders.  He tries not to dwell on his annoyance, but it simmers under his skin, distracting him.

While Wyatt and Sam chat quietly, Dean exhales a stream of fragrant smoke and looks around the wash house with lazy speculation.  The tubs he and his brother sit in are large vats originally used to wash laundry.  In the afternoons, when the laundry is washed, rinsed, and hanging to dry, the Tran family that owns the place rents out the remaining soapy water for bathing before they dump it.  His own clothes hang nearby, dripping from a fresh wash.  

His mind wanders back to the disgruntled crowd that had been slow to disperse after the disappointing news that there would be no more hangings today.  It gave Dean reason to believe he’d made the right choice--at least temporarily.  

A plan to get out of the deal is forming when footsteps approaching distract him.  He sinks down in the water as Mrs Tran slips between the hanging laundry with a large basket under her arm.  She ignores his and Sam’s obvious nakedness as she removes dry laundry from the line.  Once the basket is full, she balances it on her hip again and makes her way to the front of the store.  On the way past his tub, she makes a comment in her native language that only she would understand.  She chuckles good naturedly, winks at him, and pats him on a wet shoulder before disappearing between the hanging laundry again.

“You always did have a way with women, Winchester,” Wyatt comments with a hint of grudging admiration.  “You even have the old woman lookin’ at you with a gleam in her eye.”

Wyatt is sitting nearby on a bench, looking for all intents and purposes completely relaxed.  A black Stetson hat is cocked low across his eyes, but not so low that he can’t see everything going on.  When the heat and humidity of the washhouse got to be too much he’d removed his black coat, revealing the Colt .45 strapped his hip.  A Winchester rifle--no relation--rests on his folded coat on the bench.  Both guns are a reminder that there’s nothing casual about Wyatt’s presence.  He’s here to guard Jameson’s prisoner’s.

But he’s still a friend.  Dean rolls his eyes at the ribbing.  “She’s probably sixty years old and mean as a cat with its tail caught under a rocking chair.”

Wyatt snorts.  “You sayin’ you can do better?”

Dean shoots Wyatt a lazy grin.  “With this pretty face?”

“Almost too pretty,” Wyatt teases.  “Put you in a skirt, and you’ll have the men chasing after you too.”

When Sam sniggers, Dean sends a splash of soapy water in his direction.  “Shut up, bitch.”

“Such course language, for a lady,” Sam quips.  He ducks another splash, but his laughter fills the humid air, joined by Wyatt’s.

Dean huffs, but smiles around the cigarillo clamped between his teeth.  “You’re both assholes.”

Wyatt hums and let’s the subject drop, because he apparently has something else on his mind.  “That Mr. Jameson is something else, ain’t he?”

“A pain in my ass is what he is,” Dean lifts a foot out of the water to scrub with a brush.  “Crazy sonuvabitch must have a death wish.”

“He’ll be better off with us to help him,” Sam points out.  “We could teach him what he needs to know.”

“Yeah, that’s all we need,” Dean mutters.  “Another greenhorn going off half cocked about things he barely understands.”

“Everyone starts out somewhere,” Sam counters.

“We checked up on him,” Wyatt adds.  “Virg sent off a wire to Denver to check his credentials.  It seems this Mr. Jameson is highly regarded in the agency.  William Pinkerton himself responded.  Made it clear we’re to give him our complete cooperation.”

“Well I’m not about to question his qualifications.” Dean switches to his other foot, scrubbing until the skin turns pink and working his way up to his ankle and leg.  “He could be a two headed goat for all I care, just so long as he stopped that hanging.”

“Amen,” Sam murmurs.  He closes his eyes and leans back in his own vat of soapy water.  Now that he’s cleaner, Dean can see how gaunt he looks under his beard and the depth of the shadows under his eyes.  Dean hopes the kid doesn’t fall asleep and drown himself before they can all go off and get themselves killed.

“That was a mite close,” Wyatt agrees.  “I don’t recall a hanging ever coming that close and bein’ stopped.  You sure disappointed Kubrick.”

Dean snorts with black humor as he thinks about the tantrum the deputy threw when he found out he wouldn’t be escorting the Winchesters back out to their execution.  “There is something seriously wrong with someone who takes that much pleasure from hanging people.”

“It’s a job, jes’ like any other.” Wyatt shifts like he’s trying to find a more comfortable position.  “And one of those vamps was his cousin.”

Dean nods solemnly.  He knows what it’s like to lose family to monsters.

He’s lathered his whole body, scrubbing hard and removing an accumulation of dirt and sweat.  Going by the condition of his jail cell, he’s pretty certain a few bugs were included.  He works soap into his hair for a third time.

“Well, I got my own ideas about _pleasure,_ ” he says, changing the subject so he doesn’t have to think about the monsters he’ll be facing soon.  “Hey, Wyatt, you remember that little gal up in Tucson at the Red Garter?  Pamela?”  

Wyatt grins in response, all that’s visible under the brim of his Stetson.  “Yep.”

“Now there’s a woman to make you forget your troubles.  She’s double jointed, and she can do this trick with her hips…”  His grin deepens when Wyatt sits up straight and pushes back his Stetson to give him a sharp look.  “She can do this thing with her hips… could make a blind man see.”

Her words, not his.  She loves the irony.

Wyatt’s eyes narrow, and he suddenly exudes deadly intent.  Many men have seen that look from twenty paces on deserted streets in countless towns, but didn’t live to see it twice.  Dean merely grins.

“Pamela never did that trick with _nobody_ else,” Wyatt says in a hard voice.

Dean looks over to find his brother still relaxed, eyes closed, but grinning wide enough to split his face in half.  “Well, at least not more than a few of us,” Dean says.  “Not many men can afford a hundred dollars for a couple hours with Pamela.”

Sam doesn’t bother to muffle a snort.

“A hundred dollars?” Wyatt surges to his feet.  “She charged me two hundred!”

“I can’t believe you fellas got charged,” Sam drawls.

“She didn’t charge you at all?” Wyatt spits out incredulously.  His hand drops to the Colt at his hip.  “I oughta shoot you for that.”

From anyone else, that threat would have had Dean planning a murder of his own.  But he knows Wyatt’s all bluster.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “but you won’t.  Because that Pinkerton needs me and Dean, and the governor wants him to find Alistair real bad.  Besides--” he opens his eyes and smirks at Wyatt.  “I’m a friend.  And you don’t have many of those, especially now that Ike Clanton and his brothers are after you and Virgil.  You need all the friends you can get.”

“Damn!” Wyatt slumps back down on the bench, muttering about Pamela.  He toys with his gun, then unholsters it.  He takes aim at Sam.  “I might just put a few holes in you.  Nothin’ serious.”

Dean hoots with laughter.  Before Wyatt can think, much less defend himself, Dean hits him with a soap filled wash cloth, square in the middle of his shirt front.  The gunfighter is immediately on his feet, gun pointed in Dean’s direction instead.

“Admit it, Wyatt, you’re more upset over the money than that we’ve also had a few nights with Pamela.”

Wyatt scowls and holsters his gun.  He crouches down to scoop up the wet cloth and plops it back in Dean’s bath.  “Damn if you ain’t right,” He mutters.  Then his eyes flash wickedly and he palms the top of Dean’s head and shoves him under the water.  “Now finish that bath, I got better things to do than babysit you boys for Mr. Pinkerton.”

“Damn you, Wyatt!” Dean curses over his brother’s laughter when he resurfaces.

“Get a move on,” Wyatt grouches.  He grabs a towel from a nearby stack and tosses it in Dean’s direction.  

Still too blind from the soap to see it coming, Dean doesn’t catch it before it plops into the water around his hips.

“Jameson is plannin’ on leaving in the morning,” Wyatt says.  He throws another towel to Sam who catches his easily.  

“Is that right?” Dean spits as he wipes soap from his eyes.  His thoughts race ahead, making plans that he has no intention of sharing with Wyatt, even if he is a friend.  “Then by all means, let’s get on over to the hotel.  I could sure use a good meal.  Someone really should speak to Virgil about the food he serves in jail.”

Wyatt tosses him another towel, which Dean manages to catch this time.  “I’ll be sure to let him know, so the next time you come our way, we’ll have everything ready for you.”

Dean looks up and meets Wyatt’s gaze with a hard one of his own.  “I don’t plan on comin’ back.”

Once they’re ensconced in the hotel with a deputy guarding the door, Dean checks the open window.  He grimaces.  Of course Castiel put them on the second floor.  They could jump, but it’s risky.  Even a turned ankle will muck up their escape.  He straightens from the window and looks around the room, then moves to the bed and pulls back the quilted blankets until he can reach the sheets.  “Yeah, these’ll do.”

“Do for what?” Sam asks suspiciously.

Dean grins at his brother as he strips the sheet and rips it down the center.  

It doesn't take more than a second for Sam to catch on to what he’s doing.  “Dean, we can’t.  We’re still wanted men.”

“That ain’t a that big of a deal, Sammy.”  He tears the sheets again, and starts knotting the ends together.

“It _is_ a big deal, Dean.” Despite his protests, Sam grabs two ends of the torn sheets and starts helping.  “We can’t disappear forever.  If we can clear our names--”

“And then what?” Dean grunts.  “Settle down and live happily ever after?  You know that’s not in the cards for us.”

Sam’s face scrunches up in a disapproving frown.  “It can be if you let it.  Bobby’s taking care of our land and the herd.  We can go home, run the ranch.  Like we talked about when we were kids.”

The sheets are knotted as well as they can be, and Dean drops it to the bed.  He turns away from his brother and closes his eyes.  It hurts to think about that dream.  It would be so easy.  Breed horses as beautiful and strong as his Baby.  Maybe find a nice girl and settle down.  Raise a few kids under the endless skies.

He could stop hunting, start living.  He knows it’s possible.  Bobby and Ellen had done it.  Even his parents had managed it for a few years.

But the danger is always there.  It’s what killed Mary when Sam was just a baby.  It’s what took John a decade ago, in the shootout that also killed the yellow-eyed demon that’d murdered their mother.  It dragged Sam out of college, poisoning him, nearly taking him from Dean too.

Dean can’t sit on a ranch pretending there isn’t something he can do about the evil stalking the land.

“Pretty dreams, Sam.  But it’s not the life for us.”

Sam sighs and settles down on the edge of the bed.  “Dean, I think we should go with Jameson.  Even if you don’t want to give up hunting, we need to end Alistair, once and for all.”

Dean’s head jerks up, and he pins Sam with a glare.  “We _can’t_ ,” he barks angrily.  “He can’t be exorcised, and the only weapon we had that would work against him was sold with the rest of our stuff.”  

“So we get it back,” Sam says simply.

“Oh I intend to,” Dean says.  “And we’ll go after Alistair when we’ve got it, so don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.  But there’s someone I need to go find first.  I doubt _Operative Castiel Jameson_ will agree to a detour.”

Sam groans and drops back on the bed, hands over his eyes.   _“Dean.”_

Dean checks out the window again.  The sun is going down, and it should be full dark in another hour or so.  “She’s the love of my life, Sam.  You know I gotta do this.”

“We could at least ask him first,” Sam points out.  “What if he thinks we’re trying to escape?”

“We _are_ escaping,” Dean replies with an unrepentant grin.  “Think of it is a test, Sammy.  He wants to hunt down Alistair?  Well he’s gonna have to learn how to be a Hunter.  What better way to train him than to see if he can track us down?”

“And if he can’t find us, we go into hiding for the rest of our lives.”  Sam pulls himself back up into a sitting position and gives Dean a disapproving look.

“It’s part of the job.”  Dean drops the curtain back over the window and gives Sam a hard look.  “Even if we get those pardons, someone could come after us for revenge, or a monster might get lucky and get its teeth into us.  But at least now we’re out of jail and have a chance at surviving a little longer now.”

That was something Dean would thank Jameson for if he planned on sticking around long enough to talk to him again.  

Sam sighs, but Dean can tell the argument is won by the way his brother’s shoulders sag in defeat.  “Fine,” he says.  “But we’re not going out the window with sheet ropes.  I don’t want to get a bullet in the ass.”

“You got a better idea?” Dean asks.

Sam’s smile is sly.  “Of course.”

* * *

Castiel slams into Virgil Earp’s office, drawing the startled gazes of half a dozen deputies and Marshal Earp.  “Where are they?” Castiel demands as he stalks toward the Marshal's desk.

Virgil exchanges a blank look with his brother who sits nearby, chair balanced on two legs and tilted back against the wall.  Wyatt shrugs.

“Just who are you talking about?” Virgil asks, giving Castiel his full attention.

“The Winchesters,” Castiel grits between his teeth.  “Who the hell else would I be talking about?”

Virgil sits back in his own chair, his posture relaxed.  “They’re over at the hotel, room twelve.  Wyatt delivered them over there a couple hours ago, just like you asked.  There’s a deputy standing guard.”

Fury bubbles up in Castiel.  His hands shake so badly that he clenches them at his side to hide the tremble.  “Your deputy is lying on the bed in room number twelve.  Roaring drunk,” he informs them icily, “so drunk he can’t even remember what happened.  He’s alone, and telling some ridiculous story about someone named Pamela and her... _magical hips_.”

For some reason his last comment causes Wyatt Earp to choke.  Castiel suspects he might even be laughing.  He eyes the deputy angrily and struggles to recapture his composure.  

“Gentlemen,” he says, much more calmly than he feels.  “Dean and Samuel Winchester are gone.”

There’s a thump as the front legs of Wyatt’s chair hits the floor.  Then for a long moment the only sounds in the office comes from the street.  

“Marshal?” Castiel prompts.  

Two deputies mumble vague excuses and slip out the door at the back of the jailhouse.  Another says something about checking up on a theft at the mercantile, while a fourth grabs the coffee pot from atop the pot-bellied stove and ducks out the front door.  Presumably in search of fresh water for coffee even though a full barrel stands at the back of the office.  Sweltering heat smothers the room, making hot coffee the last thing anyone would want to drink.

Finding similar escape impossible, Wyatt stays where he is and stares down at the toes of his boots as if he can glean the whereabouts of the Winchester brothers from the dull gleam of black leather.  Virgil shifts uncomfortably in his chair and orders the remaining deputies to go over to the hotel and check on the deputy who’d been left to guard the brothers.

“There is the possibility that they stepped out for a drink,” Virgil suggests haltingly, obviously aware of what a lame excuse it is.  “We could check the saloons in town.”

“I have already,” Castiel informs him tightly.  “No one has seen them, and since most of the townspeople gathered to see them hang just this morning, I don’t think the people I questioned would have been mistaken.”

He fights the churning in his stomach and the tightening in his throat.  They don’t know, have absolutely no idea, what this means.  Dean Winchester is the only man who can help him, and now he’s gone.  

“I’ve already checked every place in town.  He’s left Tombstone,” he informs the Marshal.  “So the question now is where would he go?”  He turns to Wyatt, still slumped in the corner and avoiding Castiel’s gaze.  “You are friends with Dean Winchester.  You rode together once.  Do you have any idea where I should look for him?”

Wyatt finally looks up from his boots.  He clears his throat, but doesn’t speak.

His brother speaks up.  “Do you know where Dean might have gone?”

Wyatt’s expression shifts, and he appears to be having an internal debate.  Castiel waits with breath held, knowing that he could threaten the Earp’s jobs if he needs to, but hoping it won’t come to that.

Finally Wyatt makes a decision, and he slowly lifts his gaze to Castiel’s.  “I might know.”

Relief makes Castiel’s knees weak and his voice sharper than he intends.  “Where?”

“He set great store by an Appaloosa mare that was sold off when he was sentenced to hang.  Knowin’ Dean, I’d bet money he’s gone after that horse.”

A horse?  He’s risking his freedom for a _horse_?  “Are you certain?”

“The only thing that’s certain is the sun comin’ up, Mr. Jameson.  But the fella that bought that Appaloosa lives in Tucson.  I’d say that’s where he’s headed.” His eyes slide away, and he clears his throat.  “And maybe the Red Garter saloon.  Pamela Barnes owns the place.  She and the Winchesters are… old friends.”

Castiel could swear Wyatt’s color darkens several shades, which is surprising for a man of his reputation.  Pamela Barnes must be the same Pamela that the deputy at the hotel spoke of in his drunken stupor.  Castiel wonders, based on the vague description of the woman and her… gifts, just what the extent of Dean’s _friendship_ with the woman is.

He couldn’t care less about any of it except that it means he might find Dean Winchester.

“When does the next stage leave for Tucson?”  He’d come too far and invested too much time to give up now, simply because Dean Winchester was gone.  He’d found the man once, he will do it again.

“Not till mornin’,” Virgil says.  “It connects with the railhead at Fort Buchanan.  From there you can take the train on into Tucson.”

Castiel’s fingers curl into his palms.  Frustration and helplessness wash over him.  He believes the Winchesters have already been gone for a few hours, and he knows from experience that a lot of distance can be covered in that amount of time.

“How far is it from here to Tucson?” He asks.  “Could a rider make it faster by himself?”

Virgil’s eyes narrow at him.  He knows exactly what Castiel is considering.  “Not at night, Mr. Jameson,” he says bluntly.  “The trail isn’t an easy one, and there are still areas out there that are Indian territory.  It would be too dangerous.”

_For a greenhorn_ , is left unspoken.  Castiel glares at the Marshal for the implication, but he knows that he’s not experienced enough to make such a trip himself.  And if he gets himself killed going after the Winchesters then his mission, his whole reason for being here, would ultimately fail.  He has to approach this with logic and a plan, like with everything he does.

But it is still extremely difficult to accept another delay when he’s _so close_ to accomplishing his goals.

No matter what angle he looks at it from, he knows that there is nothing for him to do but wait for the morning stage to Fort Buchanan.  And pray that the Winchesters stop for the night somewhere along the way.

Virgil seems to sense his frustration.  “I’m really sorry, Mr. Jameson.  I’ll do all I can to help.  I’ll send a couple of my deputies along with you in the morning.”

Castiel shakes his head.  “That won’t be necessary, Marshal.” At Virgil’s surprised expression he goes on to explain, “Until I return with Alistair White and you countersign the pardons, Dean and Samuel Winchester are wanted men.” He glances at Wyatt.  “If what you tell me is true and he’s gone to Tucson, authorities there will provide whatever assistance I need to convince Mr. Winchester to fulfill his part of our agreement.”

The Marshal and his brother agree with reluctant nods.

“If you’ll excuse me gentlemen,” Castiel says.  “It’s late and I need to make an early start tomorrow.”

Castiel shakes hands with the Earps and says his goodbyes.  As he leaves the jailhouse, long strides carrying him back to the hotel, his mind races ahead of him, making plans.


	4. Chapter 4

Tucson is nearly seventy miles north of Tombstone, and the fastest route is a twenty mile journey by stagecoach, then a transfer to train.  Castiel boards the early morning stage with six other passengers.  He ends up seated next to a young girl of maybe eleven or twelve traveling with her mother.  She’s bright and energetic, and not shy about talking to a male stranger despite the disapproving looks she keeps receiving.  

The heat builds quickly in the lunging Butterfield coach.  Despite the impropriety Castiel loosens his collar and removes his jacket.  He’s tempted to roll up his sleeves as well, but the girl’s mother gives him a sharp look when he reaches for his cuffs, and he refrains.

She reminds him of his Aunt Naomi.  Very proper, with a sense of decorum that in no way allows for the opening of one’s collar, or rolling one’s cuffs back.

For the next hour he allows the youngster to distract him from the oppressive heat with her chatter.  The coach rocks and bounces along the trail, wheels and axles creaking in protest of their rough treatment by the pitted trail.  Castiel can almost hear his bones creaking in sympathy for the coach’s plight.  

Somehow his young companion manages to fall asleep, rocked into slumber by the swaying coach.  As much as he enjoyed her youthful enthusiasm and perspective on life, it’s a relief to no longer be required to participate in conversation.  He needs time to think.

If the Winchesters had stopped for the night, they were only three or four hours ahead of him.  If not, they were likely already in Tucson.  They’d taken twenty dollars from the pocket of the deputy Castiel had found drunk in their hotel room, along with his gun, and horse.  They’d also taken another guest’s horse that had been tied outside with the deputy’s, adding yet another theft to their long list of crimes.  None of that surprised Castiel, but the signed IOU they’d left in the deputy’s pocket had come as a shock.

He doesn’t understand why they’d concern themselves with repaying a debt when they’d escaped without a trace.  But he’s discovering there is a great deal he doesn’t know about the Winchesters despite the research he’d done on them before approaching them with his offer.  He certainly wouldn’t have predicted they’d go to Tucson, for instance.  It seemed more logical to go South, over the border to Mexico where they would be safe.  But both Virgil and Wyatt were convinced they’d go North.

Castiel can’t imagine a man risking his life for a horse.  But then he couldn’t have imagined Dean hesitating to accept his offer of a pardon either.

The man is full of surprises, it seems.  But he’ll be in for a surprise of his own when Castiel catches up to him.  

It’s early afternoon when they reach the railhead at Fort Buchanan.  A small town extends beyond the military post, including the train station, a mercantile, stables, one saloon, and a hotel.  Castiel eyes the hotel with longing as he boards the train.  The stage had left Tombstone early, and there hadn’t been time to eat first.  Now, hunger gnaws at him, but the train is about to leave so there is no time to stop at the hotel for a meal.

The train is crowded despite the sparsely populated area, and he passes many filled seats before finding one near the back of the car.  He takes the farthest seat he can find from the windows left open to allow air into the stifling cars.  He knows from experience the hazards of flying sparks and cinders.

Wearily, he sinks back against the wooden seat and tries to make himself comfortable.  Raw fatigue pulls at him, and he allows his eyes to slip closed.  In spite of the fatigue, hunger, and muscles that ache from the abuse of a rough coach ride, he knows that he’s doing the right thing going after the Winchesters.  He’s come too far, waited too long, to simply let them slip through his fingers now.

“Damn you, Dean Winchester,” he curses under his breath.  Somehow he _knows_ this escape was his idea.  “If I didn’t need you so badly, I’d gladly see you hang.”

A gentle pressure on his shoulder prompts him to open his eyes.  A woman with dark hair and eyes, and a pretty smile, leans across the aisle and holds out a small wrapped object.  “Quiere comer algo?”

“I beg your pardon?” Castiel is fluent in French, as it had been required in his schooling, but knows very little Spanish.  With as much time as he’s been spending in territories where the language is common, he really should make an effort to learn it.

The woman gestures with the small object again.  “Comida,” she says before unwrapping it to reveal something that appears edible and smells wonderful.

Castiel’s stomach rumbles loud enough to be heard over the constant roar of the engine and the train’s wheels passing over the tracks.  The woman laughs lightly at his blush.  Sharing in her humor, Castiel smiles wryly and accepts the offering.  

“Gracias,” he says with genuine gratitude.

“De nada, señor.” She settles back in her seat, but watches until he bites into the dough-wrapped meat.  She smiles proudly and nods her approval when he moans around the delicious morsel.

Aunt Naomi would have a case of the vapors if she could see him eating with his bare hands.  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d stressed her into a fainting spell though.  

Castiel and his brother Emmanuel had gone to live with her when their father passed unexpectedly of heart failure.  Possibly from the stress of caring for twins after losing their mother in childbirth, although Castiel’s vague memories of the man are of gentle hands and smiles.  It couldn’t have been easy for a wealthy spinster whose life was well ordered to take in two seven year old boys, but Aunt Naomi had risen to the task.

They’d been raised with all the advantages that money and an important family name could provide.  An excellent education at private schools, music lessons, fine clothes.  Their friends, if they could be called that, were chosen from several old established Philadelphia families.  The twins hadn’t connected well with the boys they were expected to befriend though, mostly preferring each other’s company.  

They were polar opposites.  Emmanuel was quiet and well behaved, usually absorbed with his studies even when Castiel tried his hardest to get him to put away his books and go outside to play.  Unlike Castiel he’d adhered perfectly to all rules of etiquette, always the perfect gentleman.  

Castiel was the rebel.  Constantly questioning.  The rules, the lifestyle they were expected to perform, and why his brother found books more interesting than the creatures hiding among the foliage in the garden.  

But despite their differences, they were always happiest in each other’s company.

No one was surprised when the bookish Emmanuel had decided to pursue religious studies.  But it had come as quite a shock when he’d announced he was moving West to take over a small parish.

Castiel had wanted to follow him, but Emmanuel insisted he finish his schooling, and accompany Aunt Naomi on a Grand Tour of Europe.  He knew Castiel found interest in those things--eventually, Castiel had taken a while to warm up to receiving an education--and didn’t want him to give them up for his sake.  Not when Castiel could join Emmanuel afterwards, just as easily.

He was in Rome when the letter arrived about his brother’s fate.  Even though he left immediately, it took weeks for Castiel to reach Denver.  

Now, all he had left of his brother, his twin, his other half, was a half-filled journal, some clothing, and a humble rosary that had been unexpectedly found clutched in Emmanuel’s hand after his death.

That was seven years ago.  It has taken Castiel that long to work his way into a position with the agency where he could be allowed to pursue cases of his choice.  And to track down three of Emmanuel’s killers.

Thinking of his brother turns the food to ash in his mouth, but he swallows the old pain down along with his first bite, and makes an effort to enjoy the rest of the small meal.  The woman who’d given it to him wore faded, simple clothing, and carried a worn basket that she guarded closely.  She obviously wasn’t a woman of means, and the small kindness of sharing a meal she probably scraped to afford makes it all the more meaningful.  Castiel won’t devalue the gift by not enjoying it, especially when it truly is delicious.

After he finishes the humble meal fatigue presses down on him.  He’d very much like to nap, but the discomfort of the train and the edgy restlessness driving him to find his quarry keep him awake.  There’s nothing he can do until he reaches Tucson, except to pray Marshal Earp is right about the Winchesters’ destination.

Eventually buildings come into view outside the windows.  The clack and clatter of the train’s wheels slow, and the brakes squeal as the cars grind to a stop.  Castiel glances at the woman who has been his silent companion through the duration of the trip.

She smiles.  “Este es Tucson.”  
  


Castiel nods his understanding and gathers his valise.  The train lurches, then hisses like a warning snake before coming to a full stop.

“Muchas Gracias,” he says to the woman, “for… la comida.”

“De nada, señor.” She pauses and hesitantly translates.  “You… are welcome.”

Before either of them moves toward the train’s exit he reaches for her hand, and presses a folded handkerchief into her palm.  “Adiós, señorita.”  Without waiting for a reply he makes his way to the front of the car where other passengers are disembarking.  He steps down and finds someone to provide directions.  

A buckboard wagon is taking passengers into town.  He climbs aboard and settles himself onto another hard wooden seat.  As the wagon lurches toward the center of town, he looks back.  The woman he’d befriended stands near the train.  He sees her open the handkerchief, revealing the gleam of coins.  When she looks up in stunned surprise he lifts a hand and waves goodbye.

* * *

Even though Tucson was the Territorial capitol until a few years ago, the city is larger than Castiel expects.  Many businesses thrive, including several general stores, milliners, flour mills, a bootery, and three barbers.  Lawyers and physicians have practices there, and the unmistakable smell of four livery stables permeate the air.

And then there are the saloons.  There are several, but The Red Garter Saloon and Pleasure House is the largest and easy to find because it is centrally located.  Castiel examines the clapboard exterior from across the street where he leans against a wood post.  The building doesn’t look like anything fancy, other than the painted sign hanging above the swinging doors where light spills through onto the boardwalk.  He watches the entrance closely, peering at every tall man that enters, looking for familiar features.  Unfortunately he rarely sees a man as tall as himself, much less the impressive height of the Winchester brothers.

He sighs.  Lurking out here will do him little good.  Leaving his post, he crosses the dusty street and pushes through the saloon’s swinging doors.  He’s immediately engulfed in golden light, raucous laughter, and the tinkle of piano keys and whiskey bottles against glass rims.

Standing just inside, he takes in every detail in a sweeping glance.  The floors are bare wood for ease of cleaning, but simplicity ends there.  At least a two dozen tables fill the main space, their gleaming surfaces offset by the red damask fabric in floral design covering the walls.  Huge gilt chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and lanterns are affixed to the walls, making the interior as bright as day.

Even though it is still early, over half the tables are already filled with customers drinking and playing cards.  Brightly, and scantily, dressed women sit among the men, even if they don’t participate in the games in any traditional sense.  

He scans the occupied tables but determines quickly that Dean and Samuel are not among the gamblers.  Deliberately, he turns away from them and resolutely ignores the itch to feel smooth cards shuffling through his fingers.  He walks past the tables to the mahogany bar that runs the length of the of the saloon, leaving the temptation at his back.  

Two men work behind the bar, supplying a steady flow of expensive whiskey and cheap conversation.  The closest looks up from drying a glass and eyes Castiel.  “What’ll it be, mister?”

“I’m looking for a couple of fellas I was supposed to meet here,” Castiel says, carefully disguising his cultured eastern accent behind a lazy drawl.  “Maybe you’ve seen ‘em?  One’s  taller than me, and has green eyes and a beard.” At least he did the last time Castiel saw him.  He hopes Dean didn’t take time for a proper shave before he made his escape.  “And his brother is even taller, with shoulder length hair.  One of them might be riding an Appaloosa.  And they’d’ve just gotten into town.”

“You want to buy a drink?” the barkeep asks bluntly.  By his tone it’s clear Castiel won’t receive any information for free.

Not that he’d expected to.  He knows the dance.  But just offering money in exchange for answers will make most men even tighter lipped.

He pulls out a twenty dollar coin and sets it on the polished wood of the bar.  “Make it a whiskey.  The bottle, please.”

The barkeep pulls out a fresh bottle and pours a substantial amount into a tumblr which he sets in front of Castiel, then puts down the bottle next to it.  Castiel shoots back the first drink, keeping a bland mask in place despite the burn, and meets the barkeep’s gaze.  The man’s mouth twitches into an impressed smile, but he remains silent.

Apparently Castiel is going to have to drink more to prove his mettle.  It’s a good thing he can hold his liquor better than most.  Now isn’t the time to be fuzzy headed.  He pours a more reasonable portion in the glass, but this time he only sips at it.  The quality is higher than he expects, but it does fit the saloon’s veneer of luxury.  

The alcohol settles warm in his empty belly, and he realizes that it is likely to affect him more than he’s accustomed too.  The train had arrived little more than an hour earlier, and again he hasn’t had time to stop for a meal.  What he’d eaten on the train hadn’t sated his hunger for long.  

As soon as he’d reached town he’d checked in at the local Marshal’s office.  His inquiry about the Winchesters had been met with curiosity and some skepticism.  A reaction he’s becoming used to since he’d left Denver on his hunt for his brother’s killers.  Marshal Earp had sent a telegram ahead for them to be on the lookout for the escaped prisoners, and no one had seen them yet, but they did have other information he needed.

He’d left the office with two potential places to start his search.  The rancher who bought the Appaloosa lived several miles out of town, and he’d paid two-hundred and fifty dollars for the mare.  With only the twenty dollars stolen from the deputy in Tombstone, Dean had no hope of buying the animal back.  

Stealing the horse would be the obvious solution, but Dean was already sentenced to hang, and adding horse theft to his charges would only make him more attractive to the bounty hunters.  Castiel doubts Dean has survived as long as he has by being foolish.  The smart action would be to increase his stake and buy the mare.  The steadily filling tables in the saloon would give Dean plenty of opportunity to do so.

Wyatt had insisted that the Red Garter is Dean’s favorite saloon in Tucson, and that the best high-stakes games are played there.  Based on that, Castiel can only assume that he hasn’t arrived in town yet since he’s currently absent from the tables.

Or he’s somewhere else.

Castiel would rather not consider that possibility too closely yet.  Not with how much time he’d taken to get here.

He needs to talk to Pamela Barnes.

After another sip of the whiskey--smaller this time--he sets his tumblr on the bar and looks at the barkeep, lifting a brow in question.

Apparently he’s passed muster.  “What about these men you’re lookin’ for?” the man asks, much friendlier now.

“The name’s Winchester,” Castiel drawls.  “Dean and Samuel Winchester.  They’re friends of Pamela Barnes.”

There’s a flash of recognition before the barkeeps eyes slide away.  Castiel expects him to deny any knowledge of the men, but instead he leans over the bar and shouts over the noise building up as more patrons arrive.  “Hey Lily!  You seen Pam tonight?”

A girl dressed in brilliant magenta accented with black lace separates from a crowded table and saunters over to stand beside Castiel.  Her pale blue eyes slide over him from head to toe and back again.  She smiles with a approval.  “She’s showing a customer upstairs.  She’ll be right back.”

The barkeep gestures at Castiel with the rag he’s been cleaning glasses with.  “This fella is lookin’ for a friend of Pam’s.”

“Pam’s got a lot of friends.  But me, I just got here a few weeks ago.”  She moves closer, pressing her bosom against Castiel’s arm.  “I’m looking to make some friends of my own.”

Castiel resists the urge to push her away.  He’s sure she’s lovely to most men, with her white-blond locks, heart shaped lips, and youthful face.  But all he feels is discomfort with her proximity.

He has many years of practice feigning attracting to the fairer sex, but he has no intention of giving her what she wants.  “I’m looking for Dean and Samuel Winchester,” he says.  When her hand comes to rest on his thigh he covers it with his own, stopping its upward progress.

“Never heard of him,” she purrs.

“Was someone asking for me?”

Grateful for the interruption, Castiel moves away from Lily as he turns to greet the speaker; Pamela Barnes, he assumes.  The woman striding toward them is dressed in purple satin trimmed with black sequins, and wears a black feather boa draped around her bare shoulders.  Dark hair is piled high on her head, and decorated with more feathers.  She moves with a liquid grace that Castiel suspects most men would find wholly fascinating.  He just wonders how she stays upright.  It must have something to do with her “magical hips”.

When she gets close enough he can see that her eyes are covered in a milky film, which comes as a surprise.  He wouldn’t expect being a madam and navigating the saloon’s patrons would be easy without sight.  She must not be completely blind though, because those strange eyes turn unerringly in his direction when she comes to a stop at his side.

“I’m looking for Dean and Samuel Winchester,” he says.  “I’ve heard you might know where I can find them.”

“Is that so?”

“They’re friends of mine,” he explains.  “I was supposed to meet them here.”

The woman he assumes to be Pamela Barnes gives him an assessing look.  Her brow furrows, a flash of confusion or uncertainty.  “They’re friends of mine too.  But I haven’t seen them.”  She smiles wide and gestures at her eyes.

Castiel chuckles softly at the joke, and tries to gauge the truth of her words.  There is the possibility that the Winchesters haven’t arrived in town yet.  Or if they have, Pamela might possibly be protecting them.  

Taking a gamble, Castiel decides to test her loyalty.  He pulls a twenty dollar gold coin from his pocket and sets it on the bar next to the one that paid for his mostly full bottle of whiskey.  “I think I’ll wait around.  They might show up.”

Pamela’s milky eyes follow the gold, and her calculating expression says that she knows when there is good money to be made.  Castiel hopes that will work in his favor.

“If they come around, I’ll mention you been asking for them.”  
  


Castiel is about to decline her offer--the last thing he wants is to give them warning so they can turn tail and run again--but he’s distracted when Pamela closes the space between them.  He tenses, not really in the mood to tolerate more physical advances.  But she only loops an arm through his.

“In the meantime, maybe we can find something else to occupy your time.”  She maneuvers Castiel toward one of the poker tables with an open seat.

Castiel hesitates.  He knows his own weaknesses when it comes to gambling, and it has nothing to do with his skills.  The last thing he needs is that sort of distraction.  He pats Pamela’s wrist gently.  “I’m not in the mood for cards tonight.”

“No?” A knowing smile spreads across her face, revealing delicate age lines that enhance her beauty rather than detracting from it.  “Well I think we can find something else to keep you busy.”  Slender, yet strong fingers clamp over his arm and he finds himself being guided toward the stairs.

He definitely doesn’t want a woman either.  He wouldn’t even if he were here for pleasure rather than business, but he can think of no excuse that won’t make her suspicious.  

At the landing, Pamela pauses and looks at him thoughtfully.  “I know just the right girl for you.”

_Only if she’s not a woman,_ he thinks.  But he still follows her down the thickly carpeted hallway.  She leads up him another set of stairs, past a second landing, and up to the third floor where she stops at the first door on the right.  She knocks discreetly, and when there’s no response she opens the door and leads him inside.

His first impression of the room is _pink_.  The whole space is decorated in pink and white lace, and the canopied bed looks like a giant pink pillow.

It makes him wonder just what kind of girl she thinks he’d want.

“This should do,” Pamela says brightly.  She spins toward him and feels his shoulders and arms through his coat.  “Big, aren’t you?”

He pulls away from her touch.  “I don’t think-”

She steamrolls over him.  “I’ve got to get back downstairs, but I’m going to send up April.  She likes big men.” She winks.” And twenty dollar gold pieces.  You wait right here.”

With that she’s gone in a cloud of flowery perfume.

Wyatt Earp hadn’t elaborated but it’s obvious that Ms. Barnes and the Winchesters have some sort of relationship.  She has reason to protect them from strangers asking questions, and he can’t trust her word that she hasn’t seen them.  

It’s safe to assume she lied.  And it’s also possible she’s got the Winchesters ensconced safely in another room in the saloon.  She may even be on her way to warn them of Castiel’s presence right now.

He hadn’t expected to end up where he is, but now that he’s alone, he sees it for an opportunity.  If he’s quick, he can search the rooms before April arrives.

He opens the door and scans the hallway, relieved to find it empty.  He slips out and moves to the next door.  His hand is on the doorknob when he hears something that stops him.  There’s a laugh, followed by a pouty childlike voice.  “Oooh you’re so big and strong!  I love it when you spank me like that!”

Another voice, masculine and definitely not Dean or Samuel speaks up next.  “Then we’ll do it some more.”  The words are followed by the crack of palm against skin and a delighted squeal.  

Heat suffuses Castiel’s cheeks and he jerks his hand away from the brass knob.  He’s glad he hadn’t accidentally walked in on whatever _that_ was.  It certainly isn’t something he’d expect people to find pleasure in but the woman certainly seemed to.  Or at least she’s putting on a very good performance for her client.  

As he moves on to the next door, Castiel’s traitorous brain wonders if that’s something Dean Winchester would be interested in.

Blood redirects from his cheeks to a location much lower.

So far he’s ignored his attraction to the outlaw, but it had taken conscious effort while they were in the same room.  Now though, his body betrays him, even without Dean’s presence.  He closes his eyes and tries to will away his reaction, but that only allows his imagination to roam further.  In his mind, Dean sits on the edge of a bed, patting his thighs in invitation for Castiel to lie across them so he can--

His eyes fly open.  That’s enough of that!  Dean is an outlaw, and currently the object of Castiel’s hunt.  He’s not someone Castiel wants to think such things about.  

He’s always been careful to keep a tight rein on such fantasies, no matter who features in them.  And he certainly has no time for them right now.  So he refocuses and moves to the next door.

He pauses with his ear close to the wood.  When there’s no sound, he opens it and steps inside the dark interior.  But then light from the hall falls over the bed’s two occupants.  He has the vague impression of skin and limbs tangled together.  There’s a bare breast and a hairy thigh which disappears under a scarlet blanket.

The man stirs and rolls toward the woman, revealing a hairy backside.  “C’mere, Clemmie,” he mutters.

Castiel ducks quickly back out of the room.  That definitely is not one of the men he’s looking for.

He’s grateful to find the next few rooms empty, even if he is frustrated to find no signs of the Winchesters.  Faint sounds of movement and conversation come from the next two rooms.  

In the first, a young woman calls out “Oh, Sam… oh, Sam… oooohh, Sam!”

Castiel’s hand goes for the doorknob, while his other goes for his gun, but then he hears a man’s voice, stuttering every third word.  Disappointed, Castiel moves on.  Samuel Winchester doesn’t have a stutter.

From the next room he hears another man speaking.  “Come on, Suzie.  Jest lay yerself down over here.”

Followed by “Yeah Suzie, you know jest how we like it.”

_We?_

Suzie has _two_ customers!  At the same time!

“How does that even work?” Castiel murmurs.  But he moves on.  Those men were not Dean or Sam.  And he’s relieved.  Even with his own queer preferences, he doesn’t want to think about the brothers _sharing._

The room at the end of the hall is by far the largest.  And it’s empty.  An oil lamp sits on the table, wick turned low but still enough to illuminate the elaborate decor.  Carved mantel, thick carpeting, purple velvet draped over the windows and the canopied four poster bed, which is covered by a purple satin quilt.  There’s an adjoining room as well, containing a closet, a dressing table, and a brass bathtub behind a screen of embroidered fabric.  A tall mirror stands in the far corner of the smaller room.

No sign of either Winchester, but at this point he’s beginning to think he’s on a wild goose chase and they’ve slipped away for good.  He balls his fists in impotent rage and takes a few deep breaths.  When he’s no longer tempted to shoot them on sight, if he ever _does_ find them again, he makes his way back through the suite’s main room and to the door leading out to the hall.

From the doorway he spots a redheaded woman emerge from the stairway, and he backs up, closing the door until there’s just a sliver of space for him to watch through.  She stops in front of the room Pamela had left Castiel in and opens it.  Then she stands on the threshold, confusiion marring her features.

That must be April.

Wonderful.  If he goes back downstairs now, he’ll raise even more suspicion.

He closes the door as silently as possible and sweeps his gaze across the room again as he tries to formulate a new plan.  His eyes pause on the bed.  Purple.  Like Pamela’s dress.  Could this be her personal quarters?  It seems likely, based on its location, size, and opulence.

A plan begins to form.  He could go chasing all over the territory, or he can wait a little longer to see if the Winchesters show up.  If they don’t, they’ll have more of a head start on him than they had before, but he’s already lost them.  At this point a few more hours won’t impact the current situation if they ran in an entirely different direction than Tucson.

Deciding to stay is easy, based on that logic.  He moves into the dressing chamber and settles down on the delicate chair at the table.  Whoever comes in has to pass through the bedroom first, so he’ll have plenty of time to hide if he needs to.  He pulls out his small revolver and checks the load.  Satisfied, he flips the chamber closed and sets it on the table beside him.

He waits.

His chin keeps trying to sink to his chest and his eyes feel weighed down by bricks, and he’s losing his battle with exhaustion when a sound from the other room jerks him back to full wakefulness.  His head snaps up and he turns his full attention on the voices beyond the dressing room’s partially closed door.

“Sam’s not with you?”  That’s definitely Pamela, although now she speaks without the sensual huskiness she’d used with Castiel.  

The next speaker makes Castiel sit up ramrod straight and reach for his gun.

“You know he’s sweet on that soldier’s wife,” Dean says.  “Because he’s an idiot.”

Castiel pauses to listen.  Dean Winchester is the brother he needs, but if Sam isn’t with him there’s a risk that he’ll come to Dean’s rescue if Castiel arrests Dean alone.

“The widow?” Pamela asks.  

Her voice is coming closer to the dressing room, and Castiel realizes he needs to hide quickly if he wants to continue to spy.  The closet is far too small for him, so he hurries behind the cloth screen.  It’s too sheer to hide him completely, so he ducks down behind the tub as well.

“Apparently not anymore,” Dean snorts.  “Her dead husband eventually came back.”

Pamela pauses on the dressing room’s threshold and her voice is high pitched with what sounds like fear.  “He what now?”

Castiel silently echoes the question.

Dean laughs.  “Don’t worry, darlin’.  He’s not an undead abomination.  Just got wounded and couldn’t get back home till he healed up.”

It sounds like a jest.  No one really believes the dead come back to life.  But Castiel has seen things in his investigations over the years that have opened his eyes.  And there’s also the strange journal he’d found among his brother’s belongings…

There’s a relieved sigh from Pamela.  “Well good for her, I suppose.  But Sam’s still fooling around with her?”

“I dunno.  He said he just wanted to talk to her.”

Pamela snorts, and starts moving around in the dressing room.  Castiel can hear the rustle of cloth against skin, and when he glances up he can see just the edge of the mirror which reveals that she’s disrobing.  Biting back a curse he drops his eyes and tucks himself deeper in the shadows.  

“You sure it’s safe for you to split up?” she asks.

“Probably not,” Dean responds.  “But we’re both stubborn assholes, and it seemed like it’d save more time for both of us if I didn’t fight him on it.  And it might throw off anyone on our trail lookin’ for both of us.”

Pamela opens the doors of the closet to pull out a dressing gown and then sits down in the chair Castiel had recently occupied.  He can’t see her anymore, but he hears the clink of glass from containers on the table.  “Probably a good idea then,” she says.  “There was a fella in here earlier looking for you boys.”

Suddenly Dean is in the room as well.  “Who was it?”

“Didn’t get his name.  Real pretty though.” She hums like she just had a taste of something delicious.  “Had dark hair and blue eyes.  Very serious.”

“About yey high?” Dean asks.

“That was him,” Pamela confirms.

“Shit!”

Castiel mentally echoes the sentiment.  He knew there was a possibility Dean would get warning of his presence, but he’d hoped he’d have more time.  His fingers tighten on the handle of his revolver and he tenses in preparation to jump out of his hiding place, but Pamela’s words give him pause.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she purrs.  Her shadow shifts against the cloth screen as she stands, and she wraps her arms around Dean’s neck.  “I didn’t tell him a thing.” She laughs.  “I tried to pin him down with one of the girls, but he took off.  Must be shy.”

Dean grunts in thoughtful acceptance.  “I don’t suppose you got a read on him did you?”

“No, nothing.  When I touched him, all I got was colors.”

Castiel frowns.  What the hell are they talking about?  Colors?

“Anyway, he’s gone now,” Pamela says.  Her voice drops to a husky whisper.  “Let me take your mind off him for a while.”

Dean chuckles and something about it makes Castiel’s heartbeat double its pace.  “You sure?  I’m not just second fiddle to Sam, am I?”

“Oh don’t be jealous.  You know I adore both of you.”

“Yeah?  That why you charged me a hundred dollars, and he got to visit with you for free?”

Pamela laughs, loud and delighted.  “You handed over the money before I could tell you it wasn’t necessary.  I wasn’t about to give it back; a girl’s gotta eat.”  Dean grumbles something too quietly for Castiel to catch, but it makes Pamela laugh again.  “Oh honey, ain’t you jest the sweetest.”

And then they’re both quiet and Castiel’s ears heat up when they catch the faint sounds of kissing.  He should jump out of his hiding place right now and arrest Dean, but he’s frozen.

Unbidden an image of himself in Dean’s arms appears from the depths of his imagination, and his body reacts.  He clamps his teeth over his bottom lip and closes his eyes.  He doesn’t want to think about that, but as he listens to the other two people in the room, the image becomes more and more vivid.

The soft sound cuts off, and suddenly Pamela lets out a delighted squeal.  Castiel’s eyes pop open and the silhouette against the cloth screen reveals Dean carrying Pamela into the main room.  She giggles the whole way.

Damn it all to hell, he should have revealed himself already.  Now if he comes out of hiding he might catch them doing… things he’d rather not witness.

He’s still trying to decide whether he should confront Dean now or if he should wait until they’re done when Pamela’s giggling trails off.  His ears strain for any clue as to what they’re doing, but all he can hear is the indistinct murmur of their voices.

Have they already started?  Castiel has never been with a woman because he’s known since he was young that they hold no attraction for him.  And he’s yet to accept any of the offers he’s received from men.  When he was young he wasn’t brave enough, and since he’s joined the Pinkertons he’s been afraid of revealing his secret and risking the loss of his reputation.  So he has no experience on how long the whole process takes, and what he’d overheard and glimpsed in the other rooms tonight gave him more questions than answers.

Maybe he should give them a few more minutes.  Let them finish, and then reveal himself and arrest Dean afterwards.

He remembers the noises that had come from the other rooms he’d passed by earlier and decides that he definitely _does not_ want to hear anything like that.  Not if he wants to be able to look Dean in the eye later.  

Decision made, he surges to his feet and approaches the door separating the rooms.  Just as he reaches it he hear’s Pamela speak.  “Relax, would ya?  Stop acting like you’re gonna hustle outta here any minute.

Castiel steps into the room, revolver held ready.  Pamela is reclined on the bed, her hair down and spread around her bare shoulders.  She still wears a thin camisole that barely conceals her breasts, and her legs are tucked under the purple coverlet on the bed.  Dean is not in the bed with her.

“Yes, Mr. Winchester,” Castiel calls out in a clear voice.  His gaze fastens on a sudden reflexive movement at the side of the bed.  “You should definitely stay right where you are.”

Dean is standing at the window, concealed in the shadows.  As he whirls to face Castiel, the light from the lamp falls across his body.

Which is completely devoid of clothing.

He’s lean and tawny, muscles coiled in preparation for a fight.  His green eyes glitter above the curve of a dangerous half-smile.

“So, Mr. Jameson, we meet again.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This switches back and forth between POVs a lot, and HOLY COW is it hard to keep all of that straight (the POVs, not the characters lol). I hope I managed it okay. This experiment is giving me flashbacks to writing Kiss the Baker and doing everything in present tense for the first time. It takes a lot more concentration than I'm used to!

“What the hell?”

Pamela’s astonished cry fills the room.  Neither Dean nor Castiel glance her way. They concentrate on each other.

Lean, wary, handsome.  Dangerous. All of these things Castiel had known about Winchester, but seeing him now, caught and cornered, those elements of the man are far more vivid.  He stands his ground without fear of the gun in Castiel’s hand, or embarrassment for his nudity.

Castiel is a professional, an experienced Pinkerton operative.  He’s been involved in many dangerous cases during his tenure with the agency.  But Winchester's unwavering stare hints at another, more elusive danger that he has never encountered before and isn’t sure he understands.

He’s confronted criminals of all kinds; bank robbers, thieves, even murderers.  Lowlife scum lurking in back allies, swindlers who rob people of their most precious possessions, and coldly emotionless scoundrels who would easily cut a person’s throat for a pouch of gold dust.  And a few _things_ that he suspects now were less than human, even though he hadn’t understood where the feeling came from.  Not until recently. Not until he read about strange happenings in his brother’s journal.

But human or not, none of those people gave off the same aura of danger that oozes from Dean Winchester.  He watches Castiel with an unwavering stare, and holds himself in a deceptively relaxed stance when anyone else might have tried to go for their gun.

The power in his muscular body is leashed, carefully contained.  Castiel tries to keep his eyes up, away from the broad expanse of skin, and the odd tattoo above his heart that draws his attention like a moth to flame.  Instead he keeps his eyes on Winchester's’s face. The beard is gone, along with the stench and grime that he’d sported back in the Tombstone jail.  

He looks younger, softer, with an almost boyish curve to his features.  His face is unlined except for a small scar on his chin, just below his bottom lip.  But there is hardness there too. An angle to his chin that suggests strength.

The scar draws Castiel’s gaze to Winchester's lips, and he wishes he’d never looked.  They’re full and pink, pulled into a frown which gradually fades into an amused grin as Castiel stares, revealing straight white teeth.

Castiel’s eyes whip up, meeting sparkling green.  “Get dressed, Mr. Winchester.” For emphasis, he centers his aim on the strange pendant and flame tattoo over Winchester's heart.  “Don’t make any sudden moves.” Without looking away, he addresses the other occupant of the room.  “And you, Ms. Barnes. Please get dressed and go get the marshal.”

“Dean?” Pamela asks, voice edged with uncertainty and alarm.

Dean holds Jameson's gaze, gauging how serious he is about using his little pea shooter.  The answer appears to be Very, so he speaks softly to Pamela. “Do what he says, darlin’. He might just shoot me if you don’t, and I’m not too crazy about where he’s pointing that gun.”

The tip of the revolver lowers to a strategic area below Dean’s waist.  Asshole. When Dean gets out of this he’ll have to give Jameson a lesson on stick-up etiquette.  Even if he has to make up the rules himself.

Rule number one: Don’t point a gun at the Family Jewels.

“But Dean,” Pamela starts.

He cuts her off.  “Get the marshal.”  When she gets up to obey, hurrying toward the other room to dress, he smirks at Jameson.  “I’ll just put on my own clothes, if you don’t mind?”

Blue eyes never waiver, but Jameson nods.  “By all means, Mr. Winchester. Make yourself presentable before the marshal gets here.” His voice raises, probably for Pamela’s benefit.  “And if she brings anyone else back other than the Marshal, I will absolutely shoot you.”

Shit, he’s serious.   _Don’t try anything,_ he thinks real hard, and hopes Pamela picks it up.  

She must, because she emerges from the dressing room without a visible weapon.

“Please be quick,” Jameson says.  “I’d just as soon shoot him as look at him.”

The threat makes Dean grin.  The greenhorn has a stiffer spine than he expected.  And he managed to not only figure out Dean was heading to Tucson, but he also beat Dean here, which he can admit to himself is at least a little impressive.

He gives Pamela a reassuring nod, sending her on his way and then reaches for his pants.  “You won’t shoot me, Mr. Jameson,” he says. “If you kill me, who will lead you to Alistair?”

“I didn’t say I intend to kill you, Mr. Winchester,” Jameson answers dryly.  “There are a lot of places to shoot a man that won’t be fatal.” He pauses then adds, “And you may turn around while you dress.”

Dean chuckles at the prim order, but he obeys.  Not because there’s a gun pointed at him, but because he’d rather not let the agent see how hearing “Mr. Winchester” in that rough, commanding tone affects him.  He’s not shy about his attraction to men--he can handle himself in a fight if someone takes offence to his flirting--but he doesn’t want to give the guy another weapon to use against him.

“Then you know how to use that thing?” he asks as he steps into his pants.

With Winchester turned away, he’s unable to see Castiel’s weakness.  He watches one muscled leg, then the other, slip into the soft leather pants before they’re pulled up to cover Winchester's rear.  Thankfully. Castiel regretted his order to turn around the moment Winchester's backside came into view.

Winchester takes his sweet time tying the closure at the front of his pants before reaching for his shirt, and Castiel’s eyes follow the ripple of muscles along his shoulders.  “Well enough to damage those clothes beyond repair,” he says.

The deeper timber of his own voice surprises him.  He hopes Winchester doesn’t notice the difference.

Or the way Castiel’s body is reacting to all that bare skin.  

Winchester turns back around slowly once he’s finished dressing, and Castiel quickly schools his features to hide his reaction.  He holds his hands slightly away from his sides to show he’s still unarmed. There’s no longer any sign of humor on his handsome features.  There’s only a dangerous green gaze boring into Castiel’s with unwavering calm.

Under the circumstances, he’s almost too serene.  Too certain.

Castiel registers sound from the direction of the closed dressing room door just as it flies open, crashing back against the wall.  He sees the gleam of a gun, even as he’s being knocked down by the person leaping at him from the shadowed portal. Instinct lifts his hand and he squeezes the trigger.  His gun goes off while pointed in the general direction of Dean’s torso, and then he’s on the floor with Pamela straddling his waist, pinning him down.

He swings a fist and knocks her gun away, but she turns into a hellcat, attacking him with fingers curled like claws and tipped with strong nails.  He throws his arms up to protect his face.

She must have snuck back into the dressing room through a hidden door that he missed during his earlier search.  And now Winchester might get away if Castiel can’t fend off her attack. She has the benefit of surprise, but he’s still bigger and stronger than her.  And no slouch in a fight. He leverages his feet against the floor and heaves her to the side with his hips. A shove sends Pamela face first into the carpet, and he’s free.

Scrambling to his feet, he lifts his gun.  His breath comes in quick, harsh gasps as he looks around for Winchester.  He finds him sitting on the edge of the bed, looking back at Castiel with an expression somewhere between disbelief and tight-lipped fury.

“You shot me!” Dean exclaims as he lifts his hand from his side.  He looks down at the blood coating his palm and grimaces as more blood oozes through the cloth of his shirt.  Son of a bitch _shot him!_

Jameson's shadow falls over him as he approaches and calmly takes in Dean’s condition.  He shuffles closer, still holding that damn pea shooter ready, and reaches out to pull the bloody cloth away from Dean’s skin.  His eyes come up and latch on Dean’s.

“That’s too bad,” he says dryly.

Dean can feel his eyes bugging out.  “Too bad?” he echoes incredulously. “That’s all you have to say?   _Too bad?_ ”

Cool as a mountain breeze, Jameson gazes back.  “Yes. Too bad I missed.”

Dean doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it makes Jameson smile.  Since he’s met the man all Dean has seen from him is calm professionalism.  But this smile is all wicked spite.

“I aimed lower,” Jameson says.

Dean is seriously considering going for Jameson's gun and using it on the bastard.

“But it’s only a flesh wound, so it appears you’ll survive,” Jameson sighs.  “I do wish I hadn’t ruined the shirt though. I suppose I’ll have to replace it.”

“Replace it?” Dean’s starting to feel like an idiot for repeating everything Jameson says, but he just can’t wrap his head around this goddamn greenhorn _shooting him._

Castiel really shouldn’t be amused at Winchester's expense.  The way his mouth hangs open as he tries to work through his shock is not only gratifying, because Castiel has finally given the outlaw a taste of his competence, but it’s also just funny.  Impulse makes him reach out and place a finger under Winchester's jaw. Very gently he nudges it closed.

When Winchester only blinks at him, Castiel smiles wider.  “You’ll catch flies, Mr. Winchester.”

That snaps Winchester out of his daze and Castiel can see him priming for an explosion of temper.  But he’s waylaid when the door to the hall flies open. The marshal and two deputies burst into the room, guns drawn.

“Pamela?  What the devil is going on?” the marshal demands.  His eyes flick across the rooms occupants, finally landing on Castiel.  His expression is bewildered as he gives Castiel a long look before recognizing him.  “Jameson?”

There hadn’t been time for Pamela to summon the marshal, so he and the deputies must have been nearby to hear the gunshot.  Castiel takes in the marshal’s disheveled clothing and mussed hair, and wonders if he’d been with one of Pamela’s girls.

“Yes, Marshal,” Castiel replies wearily.  “And I’d appreciate your assistance with Mr. Winchester.  It seems he’s been accidentally injured.” Winchester makes a strangled noise that might be a blasphemy.  Castiel ignores him. “I doubt it’s very serious, but I would appreciate the loan of one of your jail cells for him, and for someone to call the doctor to check his wound.”

Winchester surges off the bed.  “Oh hell no. I’m not--”

Castiel cuts him off.  “It’s just until morning.”  He turns away from Winchester's indignant sputtering and addresses the marshal again.  “I appreciate your cooperation, Marshal. I’ll be sure to include a recommendation in my report to the territorial governor.”

“O-of course,” the marshal stutters.

“Now wait a minute,” Winchester growls.  “I’m not going back to jail for any reason.”

“Safekeeping.” Castiel fights to keep the slow-rising anger out of his voice.  “Just so you won’t get any ideas about slipping out of town in the middle of the night.  Again.”

When Winchester opens his mouth to argue further, Castiel’s control over his temper snaps.  “Listen to me, Dean Winchester. I have traveled several hundred miles to find you--and save your neck, I might add--and now the trip from Tombstone.  I am tired, hungry, and I still have to find your brother before I can do anything about those things. I’m this close--” he holds up his thumb and forefinger a bare inch apart, “--to shooting you again.  So I’d appreciate a little more respect.”

Winchester stares at him angrily for a long moment.  When he starts to speak, Castiel braces himself for another argument.  But this time he doesn’t get one. “Sam’s not here.”

“I’m aware he’s not here at the saloon,” Castiel says, “but if you tell me where I can find him, I’ll go collect him so we can be ready to leave in the morning.”

“No, he’s not _here,_ ” Winchester clarifies.  “In Tucson. We split up.”

Castiel pauses, uncertain how to proceed.  He doesn’t need Samuel to find Alistair White, but the younger Winchester had seemed more willing to cooperate than his elder brother.  And Castiel can use Samuel as leverage to keep his brother in line. “Where is he, Mr. Winchester?”

“Look,” Winchester says low and urgently.  “You don’t need him. You only need me. I can take you where you need to go.  Just leave Sam out of this. Please.”

The plea is so laden with emotion that Castiel stops to really consider the request.  He searches Winchester's eyes, looking for any sign of duplicity. Trusting him is probably a mistake.  He doesn’t want to do it. But Dean Winchester's protectiveness over his brother is almost legendary. Castiel’s found evidence of it in reports, eye-witness accounts, and he’s even seen it himself.  Winchester hasn’t wanted his brother to go on this expedition since Castiel first proposed it.

He doesn’t want his brother to come to harm.  And that is something that Castiel understands.  And he envies Winchester the ability to exercise his protective instincts; something Castiel was unable to do for Emmanuel.

Finally he nods.  “Alright. Then we’ll leave in the morning.”  He turns back to the marshal. “Please take Mr. Winchester into custody, Marshal.”

Winchester grumbles, but doesn’t fight the deputies as they escort him from the room.  The marshal lifts his hat and scratches at the bald patch he reveals. “I didn’t really think you’d find him.”

“I’m glad to have proven you wrong, Marshal.” He turns to Pamela who hovers next to the bed, watching events unfold.  “I apologize for causing a ruckus ma’am.”

She huffs a laugh and gives him a crooked smile.  “Well at least it made for an interesting evening.  Sorry about lying.” She holds out his hat, which had been knocked from his head when she'd tackled him.

He smiles back, accepting the hat and putting it back on. “So long as it doesn’t happen again.”  

Respect lights her eyes.  “Good luck wrangling Dean.  You’ll need it.”

Truer words have rarely been spoken.  “Thank you, Ms. Barnes. Good night.” He tips his head toward the marshal to include him in the sentiment, and then takes his leave.

Back in his hotel room, Castiel is too tired to eat.  After washing away the grime accumulated on his skin from his travels, he collapses into bed.  As he falls asleep, he’s followed by images of Dean Winchester.

* * *

Just after seven o’clock Castiel rouses the deputy at the jailhouse and asks for Winchester to be released.  He waits impatiently, trying to shake off lingering fatigue that more than one steaming cup of black coffee had no impact on.  He’d slept poorly, and breakfast was less than appetizing. And he’d like nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep for a week.

“He’s all yours,” the marshal says as the deputies bring Winchester into the office.  “Is there anything else you need from us?”

“Were you able to take care of that other matter we discussed yesterday?”

“It’s all taken care of.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Marshal.” It’s not exactly true, since the marshal had been less than eager to assist Castiel with finding Winchester when he’d arrived in town, but the lie slips easily from his tongue.  His upbringing as a gentleman eventually stuck, much to Aunt Naomi’s relief.

The marshal grunts.  “Good luck then, Mr. Jameson.”

“Thank you.” Castiel turns to Winchester.  “I’ve arranged for horses and supplies. Everything is at the livery at the end of town.”

There’s a flicker of speculation in those green eyes.  Castiel cuts off whatever plot he's contemplating. “Don’t even think about it, Mr. Winchester.  If you refuse to cooperate, the marshal has instructions to put you right back in that cell. And to carry out your previous sentence.  Whether here or in Tombstone, it doesn’t really matter. They’ll hang you all the same.”

“Just like that, huh?”

The low timber of Winchester’s voice slides along Castiel’s nerve endings, reminding him of one of the reasons he’d gotten so little sleep last night.  The fact that he’s so easily affected by the man sets his teeth on edge. “Just like that,” he snaps.

Dean shifts his weight and winces slightly when the movement pulls the injury at his side.  The physician the marshal had called in had cleaned and bandaged it, and pronounced that it’s only a flesh wound.  But it’s a painful reminder that Jameson had shot him without hesitation. He has little doubt Jameson will carry out this latest threat as well.

For just a moment he considers what would be worse, hanging or going after Alistair.  One death is immediate, the other would buy him more time to plot an escape. And with Sam out there free, he’ll only have to worry about saving his own skin.

Dean has always been in favor of finding another way.  But right now, following Jameson on his suicide mission is the best option he’s got before him, until he finds it.  “You don’t leave me much choice, Mr. Jameson.”

“That was my intention, Mr. Winchester.” Jameson smirks and leads the way out of the office.

Winchester falls into step next to him.  “By the way,” he says as if they’re continuing a casual conversation instead of discussing threats and coercion, “You can call me Dean.”

Castiel gives him a sideways glance.  He’d said it as if he were granting Castiel permission.  As if they might be more than just, at best, business associates.  Castiel would rather not cultivate any kind of relationship at all with Dean Winchester.  “You may continue to call me Mr. Jameson.”

Winchester strolls alongside Castiel.  The slight outward bow of his legs gives him an easy swagger, but in spite of his height and broad shoulder’d frame, he moves almost noiselessly.  “I’ll call you, Cas,” he announces. “I prefer first names. It helps to get to know the person you have to rely on.”

“That’s not even my--” Castiel cuts off.  He stops and glares up at Winchester, getting a lazy grin in return.  

It’s a subtle warning.  He can only push Dean Winchester so far, and will only have so much say in future decisions.  Trying to control him comes with inherent danger, something Castiel has known from their first meeting.

Protesting over his name will do him no good.  His teeth grind at the idea of giving even an inch, but he knows the battle is already lost.  He’ll focus on better strategies for the rest of the war. Instead, he addresses the other part of Winchester’s statement.  “Aren’t I supposed to be relying on you? You are the guide. I’d say I’m the one with something to worry about.”

The knot of aggravation in his stomach tightens when Winchester simply starts walking again.  Castiel quickly catches up with him, and is annoyed that he’s required to lengthen his strides to keep pace with the taller man.  “Mr. Winchester, what did you mean by that?”

Dean stops and looks down at Cas.  He’s learning a few things about the Pinkerton that he hadn’t noticed on their first two meetings.  He hadn’t really been paying attention because he’d assumed that he wouldn’t be seeing the man anymore.

Boy was he wrong.  He’s about to be seeing a whole lot more of Castiel Jameson, and not in the fun way.  At least until he can come up with a foolproof escape plan.

Cas is obviously stubborn as hell, which Dean can mildly respect--it’s one of his own personality flaws, after all--but he can already tell it’s going to annoy the shit out of him.  Especially since Cas is channeling all that bull-headedness into chasing down Alistair. And dragging Dean right into Hell with him.

Dean’s just as determined _not_ to go after Alistair.  But until he knows exactly how he’s going to accomplish _not_ doing that, he has no choice.  He can’t outrun Cas. That’d already been proven last night.  He’d figured out exactly where Dean could be found, and showed up at a pretty embarrassing moment.  Dean doesn’t usually have an audience when he visits Pamela or one of her girls.

As he stares down at Cas, trying to figure out how the hell he’s going to get out of this, he remembers what Cas looked like last night.  Standing in the middle of Pamela’s fancy bedroom, still dressed like a city gentleman, hair wild and tousled after his hat had been knocked away.  Eyes burning with righteous wrath and fury.

He knew Cas had been just as embarrassed as he was.  Even in the meager light Dean could see how dark Cas’ cheeks had turned.  But he’d remained cool and calm, just like ice on a frosty morning. Except for those blue eyes.  There’d been nothing frosty about them.

This morning their fire was the morning sun reflecting through deep blue.  

Dean needs to be careful.  A man can get himself in a lot of trouble over those eyes.

There are other signs of danger.  The stubborn angle of Cas’ clean-shaven jaw, as he stands toe-to-toe with Dean on the boardwalk.  And the soft curve of his mouth, almost as interesting as his eyes, even when thinned in anger.

Cas is still waiting for a response, stubbornness strung taught through his entire frame as he faces off with Dean.  He’s not planning on giving Cas the satisfaction of an explanation though. So instead he changes the topic of conversation.  Tilting his head, he gives Cas a critical once over from under the brim of his hat.

“Is that what you’re gonna wear?”

Keeping up with Winchester, figuratively or otherwise, is like trying to keep up with a tornado.  Castiel’s anger over the previous subject shifts into impatient annoyance.

“What is wrong with what I’m wearing?” He keeps his voice carefully modulated.  There’s no reason to shout at Winchester in the middle of the boardwalk. If he wants to cause a scene, he’ll just shoot him.

The way Winchester looks him up and down sends heat boiling through him.  

“I would think as a Pinkerton, you’d have more sense on what to wear for a trip like this.”

“My clothing is perfectly sensible, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Dean.”

Castiel’s fingers curl into fists.  He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  He’s never had a temper, but Winchester brings it out in him in spades.  “I see no reason to change my clothing.” He gestures to his coat, vest, and striped trousers. “My clothing is serviceable for riding--”

“So you _can_ ride a horse?”

“--and my boots,” his voice rises a notch, “are sturdy and sufficient.  They will keep my feet dry should we encounter bad weather.”

They’re new.  High heeled, stiff leather.  Maybe they pinched slightly at the toes, but a few days of wear would break them in.

“Uh huh.” Winchester nods slowly.  “And of course you have a poncho and gloves.”

Castiel blinks uncertainly.  He often wore gloves in Philadelphia, but hasn't found a need for them since he moved to Denver.  And he has no idea what a poncho is. He has the vague feeling that Winchester is trying to make him feel inadequate.  He’s not about to allow that.

“I have everything I need, Mr. Winchester.”

“Good to hear it.  Now tell me, Cas, how do you feel about blisters?” He gives Castiel another head to toe examination.  “Saddle sores? Or snake bites and bein’ scalped by indians?”

Once again Castiel feels like he’s been left behind in the conversation.  “I can handle myself quite well, I assure you.”

Dean recalled how Cas had aimed that gun straight at him last night.  Maybe he isn’t completely useless. But Dean is sure Cas is about to find out that he’s in over his head.  The sooner the better, as far as Dean’s concerned. “We’ll see about that. And call me Dean.”

He steps off the boardwalk and crosses the street toward the livery, not bothering to see if Cas follows.  When he sees a familiar, towering figure waiting outside stable’s entrance, he stops abruptly.

“God dammit, Sam!  What are you doing here?”

His giant of a little brother straightens from his lean against stable’s open doorway.  “Waiting for your slow ass to get here.” He looks past Dean’s shoulder, ignoring his fuming, and dips his head in greeting.  “Hello again, Mr. Jameson.”

“Sam!” Dean snaps, cutting off Cas’ reply.  “Answer the damn question!”

Sam’s eyes narrow.  “You think you can get arrested at Pamela’s and she won’t let me know right away?  You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Dean.”

“I’m trying to protect your ass,” Dean hisses.  Damn Pamela! She'd heard his lie to Cas about Sam not being in Tucson, but she'd gone ahead and told him about Dean's plans to leave anyway.  “Going after Alistair is--”

“Too dangerous for two men,” Sam says calmly.

Dean throws up his hands in despair.  “It’s still suicidal with three!” He flings one hand in Cas’ direction.  “That idiot at least has the excuse of ignorance--” Cas makes a noise of protest, but Dean ignores him, “--but you know better than anyone what we’re going up against here!”

“Which is why I’m not letting you go without me.” Sam gets right in Dean’s face.  “And if you think you can just take off without me, think again. I can track you better than anyone.  I’m coming, even if I have to follow you from just outside of shooting distance.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue further, but movement over Sam’s shoulder catches his eye.  He goes still, argument forgotten. And then he’s shoving past Sam and striding through the stable to the corral behind it.

Castiel had been prepared to step in and stop the fight but Winchester cuts off his own tirade.  He watches Winchester move toward the sunlit yard where Castiel can see the horses he’d ordered prepared waiting for them.  

When the Appaloosa catches sight of Winchester’s approach, she doesn’t shy away.  Instead, she nuzzles immediately into his outstretched hand.

“You bought his horse back?” Samuel asks, sounding impressed.  He glances at Castiel and grins. “Smart.”

“I was given the impression that he wouldn’t consider going anywhere without her,” Castiel says.

It’s much more comfortable speaking with Samuel.  He doesn’t exude any hostility toward Castiel.

“It’s true,” Samuel sighs.  “Sorry we ran out on you, by the way.  It wasn’t my idea, but I couldn’t let him go off on his own.”

Castiel almost points out that he very easily could have.  But then he thinks of his own brother. If he’d known Emmanuel was heading into danger, and couldn’t talk him out of it, Castiel would have followed him as well.

He wishes he’d had the chance.

“I understand.  Although your brother doesn’t seem too happy you’re here.  He won’t dig his heels in again will he?”

Samuel snorts a wry laugh.  “Dean _always_ digs his heels in.  A farmer could tie him to an ox and use him to dig furrows for planting.”

The comment surprises a laugh out of Castiel.  He didn’t expect to get along with either Winchester, but he wonders if under other circumstances, Samuel Winchester could be someone he might come to consider a friend.

His smile fades when he remembers the less than ideal circumstances that brought him here to meet Samuel.  He clears his throat when it tries to close up, and forces thoughts of his brother back down, deep, and changes the subject.  “I suppose I’ll need to obtain a mount for you as well now that you’ll be joining us.”

If Samuel notices his suddenly darker mood, he doesn’t comment.  “No need. I have one.”

“A horse you stole,” Castiel points out.

Samuel gives him a surprisingly boyish grin.  He’d also found time to shave since they last met, and without the beard, Castiel realizes they’re about the same age.  Samuel claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” He winks and then goes into the stable, probably in search of his nefariously acquired horse.

Castiel makes a mental note to find out who the owner is and send payment.  But he lets it go for now, unwilling to delay their departure any longer.

Winchester is still speaking softly to the mare when Castiel approaches.  The Appaloosa has her face pressed against Winchester’s chest, nickering softly as he scratches around her ears.

“Don’t worry, Baby,” Winchester murmurs.  “I ain’t leavin’ you again, girl.”

She tosses her head a little, pushing him back a step.  And then immediately closes the space to get more ear scratches.

Winchester laughs, a joyous sound that strikes Castiel to the quick.  “I promise, Baby. I promise.”

Ignoring the reins, Dean grabs a handful of mane and swings into Baby’s saddle.  Then, with only the pressure of his knees, he starts guiding her through her paces--walk, canter, trot, left turn, right turn.  And then he has her return to the corner of the corral where Castiel waits.

While he was sitting in jail, again, he'd had a lot of time to think.  Mostly he'd imagined creative forms of revenge to take on the Pinkerton agent, but he'd also spent restless hours mourning the loss of the Appaloosa.  There wouldn't be time to turn his meager funds into the several hundred dollars he'd need to buy her back before Cas dragged both of their asses out of town, and stealing her definitely wouldn't be an option.  Not with Cas hounding his heels.

He knew the rancher that bought her planned to breed her. If Dean survived this hunt she'd probably be more difficult to get back if she took pregnant.  So he'd tried to come to terms with the possibility of losing her forever. It didn't work very well.

Buying Baby for him is a peace offering.  Dean’s not sure he should take it. Cas _is_ trying to get Dean, Sam, and himself killed.  Horribly and painfully. But even so, Dean appreciates the gesture.  And there was a time when his mama was raising him to be a gentleman.  There’s one lesson that stuck.

“Thanks, Cas,” he says softly.

Cas looks up at him for a long moment, squinting into the morning sun as it slips higher into the sky.  Finally, his mouth twitches into an almost smile. “You’re welcome, Mr. Winchester.”

 _Well,_ Dean thinks, _Rome wasn't built in a day._


	6. Chapter 6

"She's very beautiful."

Dean crosses his arms over the saddle's pommel and meets Cas' upturned gaze.  Morning  sunlight slants across him.  The way the light shines off the hay dust floating around him gives the impression of a halo, and Dean has to blink to clear the fanciful image from  his mind.  He turns his attention back to Baby, reaching to stroke her warm neck.  "She's one of a kind, that's for sure."  He doesn't want to feel gratitude for Castiel, but it feels damn good to be reunited with her, and he can't help the kernel of pleasure growing inside him, no matter how much he hates the reason he's got her back.

"I obtained your possessions." Castiel's tone is casual, as if Dean shouldn't expect anything less.  And sure enough, Dean's saddle bags and rifle are already hanging from Baby's sides.  "You have a surprising variety of knives, I must say."

Dean chuckles and runs his eyes over the holster of his rifle and the scabbard of the machete hanging next to it.  "You never know when you're going to need them," he says softly.  Now isn't the time to arm himself, but as soon as possible, he plans on slipping all those knives back into their normal hiding places.  

There is one thing specifically that he needs to check.  “Was there a gunbelt with my stuff?” he asks.  If the Colt is gone, there is no way he's leaving town without it.  He’ll tear the whole fucking place down first.

“I'm not sure,” Cas answers.  "I had the Marshal gather what he could find."

Dean dismounts and opens the flap of the bag closest to him.  When he doesn't find it after searching both sides, he whirls on Cas.  "Is this it?" He snaps.

Castiel frowns, unsure where this hostility is coming.  But he gestures at the mule tethered with his own horse at the other end of the corral. "Maybe it's packed with Samuel's belongings…"

Turning on his heel, Dean stalks to the pack mule, muttering profanities.

Leading a tall bone-white horse, Sam comes to stand at Castiel's side. "What's going on?"

"I have no idea," Castiel answers, mystified by the elder Winchester's increasingly frantic searching.  "He asked about a gunbelt."

"Shit," Samuel hisses.  "The Colt."

Castiel looks up at Samuel.  "If he needs another gun, I can procure one for him."  

It's probably dangerous to arm the Winchesters, but it would be downright stupid to hunt a criminal of Alistair White's calibre without proper protection.  And despite their escape attempt, he doesn't believe they'll shoot him in the back and run. Not with his signature required to clear their names.

He hopes he's not wrong about that assumption.  But he has no choice but to afford them some level of trust if they're going to be travelling together. Building on that trust is why he purchased back what he could find of their belongings.

Samuel casts him a sideways glance.  "It's a special gun."  He hesitates, eyes calculating. "Our father left it to him."

Castiel senses that isn't the full truth.

"Fuck! It's not here!" Winchester spins around again and stalks toward Castiel.  "Do you know who bought it?"

It takes an effort not to step back when Winchester comes to a stop much closer than Castiel is comfortable with.  He understands why a gift from a lost loved one would be important, but this seems like a highly exaggerated reaction to losing it.  Even so, he does his best to recall the list Marshal Earp had provided him before he left Tombstone.  "I believe it was purchased by an army scout named Broken Hand."

Both brothers let out a relieved breath.  They exchange a look filled with messages Castiel can't interpret.  The elder rubs a hand over his face.  "Thank Christ."

"Do you know him?" Castiel asks.

"He's a friend," Samuel answers.  Then to his brother, "we need to get it back."

"No shit?" Winchester rolls his eyes and turns back to his horse.  "Daylight's burning, let's go."

Castiel isn't sure what just happened, but he's perfectly willing to finally get moving.  He crosses the corral toward the sorrel gelding he'd purchased for himself.

Dean absently watches Cas as he approaches the gelding, his mind racing like a runaway train as he thinks of the missing Colt.  It's not a huge setback that Cas didn't get it back; Dean hadn't expected to get any of his belongings back easily.  But it's absolutely necessary for this hunt.  At least he knows where it's at, and Broken Hand knows its significance so he'll take good care of it.  Dean just has to hope he'll be willing to let it go now that he has it.

His eyes slide appreciatively across Cas' shoulders.  The way they flex under his fancy coat as he works distracts Dean from thoughts of the Colt.  Instead he wonders what those broad shoulders would feel like moving under his palms…

In an attempt to nip those thoughts in the bud, Dean jerks his eyes away.  They land on the mule near Cas' gelding, and annoyance successfully grabs his full attention.  

Dean approaches the mule and looks over all the packs again.  "What the hell is all of this, Cas?"  

Castiel blinks lake-blue eyes at him, confused, then nods toward the packs. "Provisions for a trip."

Dean glances over to see Sam suppressing an amused smile.  They've spent most of their lives in the saddle or sleeping in seedy saloons, and never needed more provisions than they could fit in their saddlebags.  "We don't need all of this shit, Cas."

A little wrinkle appears between Castiel's brows, and he tilts his head to one side.  "Of course we do."

Sam, ever the diplomat, steps in.  "It couldn't hurt to take it, Dean.  We'd be better off staying out of towns until our names are cleared."

It irritates him that his brother has a point.  He glares at the mule, but it doesn't acknowledge him.  Somehow that ratchets his temper up another notch.  A glance at Sam, and his knowing expression makes him blush.  It's the straw that breaks the camel's back.  "We don't need this much," he snaps.  Reaching out, he grabs the rope holding the provisions in place.  A tug loosens the whole thing and the packs fall to the dirt at their feet.

Castiel and Sam both let out a squawk of surprise, and the racket startles the mule.  It flattens its ears and side steps, but is still tethered to the fence.  It bucks, stiff-legged, dislodging anything still clinging to its back.

"Dean!  What the hell are you doing?"

"Those provisions were expensive-"

But Dean is no longer paying attention to either of them.  A box that had been tied with the rest of the packs had fallen down and popped its claps, spilling the contents into the dirt at his feet.  He squats down and picks up a wooden cross in one hand, and a bottle labeled "holy water" in the other.  There are a few wooden stakes, a handful of silver bullets, and a small pamphlet.  Dean drops the cross and picks up the booklet, flipping it open to the first page with a thumb.

In fancy printed script, the title reads _A Guide to Hunting Vampires_.

"Cas?" Dean asks, low and angry.  "What the hell is this?"

Sam’s long shadow falls over him as he looks over Dean’s shoulder.  "Oh hell," he mutters.  

When Dean looks up at Cas, he gets a stubborn look back that's he's starting to become accustomed to.  "I assume you know very well what that is."

Dean knows vampire hunting kits are out there in the world, but he's never actually known anyone stupid enough to buy one.  The only useful things in the box are the holy water, assuming it's genuine, and the silver bullets might come in handy, but not against a vampire.  He huffs out a scornful laugh.  "It's a load of crap, that's what it is," he barks.

Cas' frown darkens into something that Dean will never admit is slightly intimidating.  "You're lying." He squats down next to Dean and begins packing the spilled contents back into the box.  "I know what you and your family really do for a living."

Dean's head jerks and he stares sharply at Cas' irritated profile.  "You know, do you?"  His voice is soft.  Just loud enough to carry to the other man.  

The condescending tone digs at Castiel's temper. He realizes that most folks in the territories take one look at his refined clothing or hear his educated Eastern accent and assume he'll be useless, but he'd hoped he'd given Winchester enough proof that isn't true.

Once the box is packed up, Castiel stands.  He glares at Winchester as he slowly straightens up next to him.  "Yes, I do know.  I have been tracking your movements for a long time.  I noticed a pattern in the reports.  I extrapolated from there."

Dean sighs.  He'd thought Cas was an idiot for wanting to go after a criminal as notoriously vicious as Alistair without an army to back him up, but if he knows the kind of real monsters that are out there, he's even more stupid than Dean assumed. Especially if he thinks he's going after a _vampire._ They're gentle kittens compared to Alistair.  "Man, you have no idea what you're getting yourself into."

Cas' back goes straight with indignation.  "I know exactly what I'm doing, Mr. Winchester."

Memories of what happened to him while he was with Alistair's gang bubble up from where Dean keeps them buried.  The idea that he's going to have to face that sadistic monster again terrifies him and on top of that he's going to have this greenhorn along for the ride, giving him one more person to keep an eye on.  It pisses him the hell off, makes him want to start swinging, or even better, start shooting.

"You know nothing!" Dean thunders.  He ignores Cas' defiant glare and moves into his space, crowding him backwards a step before the shorter man plants his shiny new boots and stands his ground.  Dean ignores the sliver of respect for the gesture, because he's still so angry at Cas' pure stupidity.  He repeats the proclamation again, this time in a hiss.  "You know nothing.  And it's going to get you killed.  And you're dragging me and Sam down with you."

"You were going to die anyway," Cas reminds him with a growl.

Dean's fingers twitch with the urge to grab Castiel, but he isn't sure whether it would be to shake some sense into him or to kiss him.  In the split second of indecision, a giant hand comes down on his shoulder and pulls him back a few steps, making the decision moot.

"Dean, we made a deal."  Sam shakes him slightly when he opens his mouth to argue.  "And we've got a plan."

"He has no idea what he's up against, Sammy," Dean snaps.  He shoots a glare over his shoulder at Cas who is still defiantly standing his ground.  He refuses to be impressed by the guy's moxy.

"No one does when they start out, Dean." He's using his reasonable voice, the one that always sets Dean's teeth on edge, but somehow still manages to be.... fucking reasonable.  "We'll teach him what he needs to know."

"That's not our responsibility-"

Sam cuts him off.  "He knows more than he should, and not enough.  You can't tell me that you'd leave anyone else in the dark.  You're better than that."

Dean really hates it when Sam tries to convince him he's a good person.  It isn't true.  He's got too much tarnish on his soul for it to be true, and he doubts there will be a nice corner of heaven waiting for him after he loses his foot race with the grim reaper.  But Dean isn't a complete asshole, so yeah, he will play teacher if he has to.  

He jerks out of his brother’s grip and spins around to thrust a finger in Cas' face.  "Alright, here's the deal.  We're going to do this my way.  You are going to forget whatever you think you know, and you're going to listen to my instructions like I'm God.  Do you understand me?"

Cas' frown deepens.  "I don't think-"

Dean jabs his finger against Cas' chest, impressed again when the man doesn't budge.  "Don't think, just listen.  Alistair is a lot worse than whatever you think he is.  And if you don't follow my instructions, you're going to wind up dead.  Tell me you understand."  He punctuates the order with another jab to the chest.

Sam's voice comes from just over Dean's shoulder. "Please, Mr. Jameson.  We just need your cooperation to make sure nothing goes wrong."

Cas' eyes flick back and forth between them for a moment, his anger clear in the narrow-eyed glare.  But after a moment, his shoulders drop slightly and he dips his chin once in a nod.  

It's almost disappointing that he doesn't resist a little further.  Dean was enjoying the way the muscles jumped in Castiel's jaw, and the way his eyes narrowed dangerously.  He's obviously accustomed to wielding the power of his position and getting his own way.  He has a confidence that Dean finds admirable.  And attractive.  Dammit.

At least Dean can ignore that last issue.

He makes an effort to tamp down his rage.  He looks down at the mess of provisions still sitting in the dirt.  "First thing.  No pack animals.  We've gotta take a detour, and I plan on moving fast.  Let's load up as much of this as we can fit on our own horses.  We'll sell the mule back to the stable."

"The stable master is going to be so pissed at you," Sam says with a chuckle.  He's stooped to gather parcels to move to the space behind his saddle.  "You're cutting into his profits today."

Instead of protesting, like Dean expects him to, Cas smiles slightly and bends down to grab a few parcels to tie behind his own saddle.  "Maybe he will learn a valuable lesson about not overselling to his customers."

Sam laughs, and Cas' smile widens as he glances over at him.  He looks proud of himself for the jest, which is adora-  Dean cuts that thought off.  Cas' insistence on going after Alistair makes him a dead man walking, and Dean won't get attached to him.  

He's lost too many people he cares about to demons.

By the time Dean returns from getting Cas' money back from a very unhappy stable master, Sam has repacked the majority of the provisions between the three horses.  Dean grudgingly admits that it really hadn’t been all that much, and he’d probably let his temper get away with him, but he doesn’t bother stating those thoughts out loud to anyone.  Cas needs to learn how to travel light and live on the move.

As he checks the buckles and ties over Baby's saddle, Dean glances at Cas who stands next to his own horse. The detective had picked a good horse.  It's a sturdy gelding that stands placidly as Castiel throws his saddle bags over its back.  He watches as Cas prepares to mount.  Despite Cas' claims, he doubts the greenhorn can even properly ride a damn horse-  

Cas pulls himself gracefully into the saddle.

Dean's eyes widen, and his jaw sags.  

Once Cas is settled, he looks down at Dean.  "What?" he asks suspiciously.

"Huh," Dean grunts.  "I just wasn't sure you would be able to ride."

The skin around his eyes crinkles when they narrow, hiding their deep blue.  "Of course I can ride.  Why wouldn't I be able to?"

Dean shrugs and finishes checking over his own gear.  "I figure a city bred gentleman like you would be more used to carriages than horses."

"It is true I do not find much need to ride," Cas answers.  "But I have had more opportunity than most."

"Well good."  Dean pulls himself up in his saddle, and pins Cas with a hard look.  "Because we're in for a hard ride, and I'd like to get as far away from this hell hole as possible tonight.  You better be able to keep up."

Sam, mounted as well, chimes in from Dean's other side.  "Don't be such a hard ass, Dean."

"Pipe down, Sammy," Dean snaps.  "He signed up for this parade, he's gotta be able to keep in step."  He turns a glare on Castiel, noticing his suit again.  He's wearing a waistcoat, for hell's sake.

Shaking his head, he nudges Baby with his knees, guiding her to the livery's exit.  "This is such a bad idea," he mutters to himself.

* * *

The trio is silent as they ride out across the small valley surrounding Tucson.  Castiel doesn’t know exactly where they’re going, and he doesn’t ask.  The silent truce between the elder Winchester and himself is fragile and he is unwilling to break it, even to speak with Samuel.  So he spends the next several hours glaring at Winchester’s back as he leads them along some invisible path.

Winchester sets a murderous pace, and Castiel has no doubt it’s to prove a very specific point.  The point being that Castiel has neither the sense, nor the stamina to be making this journey.

The pace quickly wears on Castiel.  All the bragging and confidence in the world can’t disguise the fact it’s been years since he’s ridden a horse for any significant length of time.  Under the relentlessly burning sun his lips and throat go dry, and he can feel a sunburn developing where the narrow brim of his hat doesn’t provide protection.

His back aches and his leg muscles cramp.  And those are just the parts of his body that he can still feel.

He should request a break to stretch his legs, but pride keeps his mouth shut.  He refuses to display any signs of weakness in front of the brothers, but especially Dean.  Samuel occasionally throws him concerned glances, but Castiel doesn’t acknowledge him, keeping his discomfort hidden to the best of his abilities.

If he didn’t need him so badly, Castiel would joyfully shoot  Dean Winchester.  And this time it wouldn’t be a simple flesh wound!

Dean gives Cas two days, three tops, before he cracks under the pressure and finally admits that this expedition, this _hunt_ , is a lousy idea.  He won’t break his deal, but he’ll gladly walk away from this mess if Cas calls things off.  It’s a little underhanded to try and break Cas down, but any discomfort Dean puts him through is way better than what Alistair will do to him if they get close and fail to kill him.

Because Dean prefers two days to three, he sets a grueling pace that would be rough for most men.  Cas, with his fancy clothing, and soft city-dwelling lifestyle won’t stand a chance.

He ignores the glares Sam points at him.  Sam can keep up just fine, he has nothing to bitch about.

They ride past dusk as Dean picks his way past landmarks that are familiar even in the ghostly gray moonlight.  It’s near midnight when he finally relents and they make a cold camp under a stand of trees.  

Cas is obviously exhausted, but he doesn’t complain.  He moves slowly and stiffly through the motions of unsaddling and caring for his horse, and Dean grudgingly admits to himself that he’s impressed Cas not only knows what needs doing, but doesn’t seem to need help.  Not that Dean would offer any.  Sam still watches Cas with concern, but he backs off when Cas waves away his quiet offer of help.

Dean gets them up before first light.  Cas is clearly unhappy with having so little rest, if the scowl he wears is any indication, but he repacks his bedroll and saddles his horse without a word of complaint.  Other than a few softly spoken exchanges with Sam, Cas remains silent.  Which suits Dean just fine.

The only thing that _isn’t_ fine is the fact that Cas obviously hasn’t changed his mind yet.  Dean can tell by the defiant angle of the Pinkerton’s chin.   _If he isn’t careful,_ Dean thinks, _he’ll get the damn thing sunburned, he’s got it jerked so high in the air._

By the time Winchester decides to make camp on the second night, Castiel has regrets.  He regrets every decision he’s made in his life that has led him to this point.  He regrets freeing the Winchesters of their sentenced fate.  He regrets his entire existence.

He’s so tired that he’d have dozed off in the saddle hours ago if he were a better rider.  Fear of falling out of the saddle and the pain radiating from his hips and spine keep him wide awake.  Although he’s stopped paying attention to his surroundings, and has just allowed his horse to follow Winchester’s Appaloosa.  With Samuel bringing up the rear, Castiel assumes he’ll keep him on the path as well.  

When his horse, dubbed Honey for her color, slows to a stop Castiel lifts his head.  He’s so exhausted that he didn’t even notice the others stopping.  Thankfully Honey doesn’t seem keen to go on without them.

He looks around with as much curiosity as his fatigued brain can muster.  The spot doesn’t seem significant compared to the rest of the terrain they’ve been traveling through for most of the day.  Unlike their campground from the previous evening there are no surrounding trees.  They’d disappeared from the land before noon.  The Winchesters seem to think the space is adequate though because they’re dismounting and discussing whether it’s safe to build a fire.

He watches them dully, and makes no move to dismount.  He’d very much like to join them on the solid ground after spending all day swaying in the saddle, but his body doesn’t obey the wish.  Dropping his head again, he examines his hands, still gripping the reins.  It takes an effort of concentration to uncurl his fingers and let them go.

“Cas, get your ass down here and help us set up camp.”

Not wanting to give Winchester more reason to doubt him, Castiel shifts in the saddle.  It’s a mistake.  Parts of his body that had gone numb suddenly light up with sensation.  All of it bad.

He stifles a pained moan.  Pride be damned.  “I am afraid I cannot.”  His voice is hoarse, and he swallows in an attempt to work moisture into his parched mouth and throat.

Dean looks up from the bare patch of ground he’d been eyeing as a potential spot for a small fire pit.  They’re not in the safest location for a fire, but he’s feeling the strain of the trip and if he doesn’t get some coffee in the morning, he’s going to regret it.  

He gets one look at Cas and feels a rush of guilt.  If Dean feels a little worn down, Cas looks like he’s been run over by a stagecoach.  And he’s beginning to get enough of a sense of Cas’ character that he can tell the stubborn bastard is hiding the extent of his misery.  He’s gotta be in far worse condition than he looks.

Dean approaches Cas’ horse, and notices the poor animal also sagging.  Fuck.  He’s an asshole.  “Come on, Cas.  Getting off the horse is the easiest part of riding.”

Cas gives him a flat look that has Dean biting back a grin.  He could give Sammy some serious competition in a bitchface contest.  “Thank you for the words of wisdom, Mr. Winchester.”

“Dean.”

Cas actually rolls his eyes, and Dean shouldn’t find that so damn delightful.

“ _Dean,_ ” Cas concedes, but speaks it with so much venom that it might as well be a curse.  Then he sighs and his stiff posture sags into a defeated slump.  “I’m afraid I may have overestimated my riding abilities,” he admits softly.  “And I’m finding it difficult to move.”

Sam swings around from where he’s working on unsaddling his horse.  Dean can feel the disapproval radiating from him, and he knows he’s probably in for a lecture.  The surge of guilt he feels is quickly subsumed by annoyance.

They wouldn’t even _be out here_ if weren’t for Cas being a bullheaded idiot.

He ignores the voice in his head pointing out that he and Sam would be six feet under if they weren’t here with Cas.

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean mutters as he approaches Cas’ sorrel and reaches up to help him down.

Castiel braces himself for rough treatment, but Dean is surprisingly gentle as he guides Castiel out of the saddle more gracefully than he could have managed on his own.  As soon as his feet touch the ground his knees buckle, and he clings tightly to Dean so he doesn’t end up on his ass in the dirt.

In the next few seconds feeling tingles back into his legs.  Almost immediately, he regrets it.  His muscles spasm, his bones ache, and it feels like liquid fire burning under his skin.

Dean’s arm slips around his back and Castiel leans into his strength.  Despite the burning ache and screaming protest of his muscles, Castiel experiences a split second of yearning to feel Dean’s hard body pressing against him in a completely different way.  It’s an odd thing to be grateful for the pain that wipes those thoughts away almost immediately.

“Whoa there.” Dean actually sounds concerned as he tightens his grip to keep Castiel upright.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel grits out.  Although why _he’s_ apologizing when he knows Dean is deliberately trying to break him, he has no idea.  He tries to shift away, to stand under his own power, but his legs still refuse to cooperate.

“It’s alright, Cas, I’ve got you.  Come on, take a step or two.”

Castiel can’t decide if Dean’s softly spoken words actually sound sympathetic, or if his fatigued mind is playing tricks on him.  Either way, the task Dean has set for him seems impossible.  But Castiel has already made a fool of himself, he’s not going to compound it by being unable to do something as simple as walking.  He gathers his will, threatens his left foot with amputation if it doesn’t cooperate, and takes a step.

It’s almost too much and he would have gone down without Dean’s strength keeping him upright.  The next step is easier though, and he shuffles forward.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Dean grunts as he helps Cas stumble away from his horse.  He shoots a look at Sam, silently ordering him to take care of the animal, since Cas obviously won’t be able to.

“I didn’t want to slow us down.” Cas’ voice is strained, and from this close Dean can see him flinch with each step, even in the dark.

“Dude, if you cripple yourself, you’ll definitely slow us down.”

A small smile lifts the corner of Cas’ mouth.  “I’ll endeavor not to be that much of an inconvenience.”

Several curses crowd the tip of Dean’s tongue.  Stubborn bastard.  “I’d leave your ass out here in the desert if you do.”

Cas gives him an unreadable look and then straightens, pulling away from Dean’s support.  “Thank you, Mr. Winchester, I believe I’ll be fine to walk on my own now.”

Dean highly doubts it, but he lets go.  He resists the urge to hover, but he keeps a close eye on Cas as he shuffles a few steps on his own.  Cas thanks Sam quietly for taking care of his horse, and insists on laying out his own bedroll.  Then he walks around the camp in a few slow circles while Dean cares for Baby, and Sam gets a small fire started.  After he eats the small ration of dried meat and hardtack, he slumps down on his blankets and is asleep almost immediately, still wearing his coat and boots.

“Dean,” Sam says from the other side of the fire.  “I know what you’re doing, and you need to lighten up.”

“Hey, he wants to hunt monsters, he’s gotta learn a few things about The Life,” Dean grumbles.

“Not like this,” Sam argues.  “I don’t even think Dad would have pushed this hard.”

He might have, if he was trying to convince a stubborn Pinkerton agent to give up on a suicide mission.  John Winchester wasn’t known for being soft, and he certainly didn’t raise Sam and Dean with a gentle touch.  

But Dean got over his hero worship for the man a long time ago, and as much as he loved the man who raised him, he doesn’t want to carry on the harsher parts of John’s legacy.  

A twinge of conscience needles at him, and he sighs.  “Okay yeah, I know.”

Sam gives him a long hard look, as if judging whether or not Dean’s being honest.  But after a moment he smiles wryly.  “Just remember, if he keels over, he can’t sign the pardons.”

Dean silently accepts the olive branch, and snorts a wry laugh.  “Alright, alright, point taken.”

He looks over at Cas and winces at how uncomfortable he looks.  He’s going to be even more sore in the morning, and sleeping fully dressed like that is probably going to make things worse.  He hunkers down next to Cas and carefully divests him of his coat, and unbuttons his vest.  Cas murmurs unintelligibly, and turns into Dean’s touch.

Seeing him like this, it suddenly strikes Dean how young Cas is.  A grown man, definitely, but probably no older than Sam in his mid twenties.  Dark lashes brush against Cas’ sunburned cheeks, and his hair is wild now that it’s freed from the confines of his hat.  His plush lips part as he breathes in exhausted slumber.  In sleep, there’s something achingly vulnerable about him.

That vulnerability cuts right through Dean.

He swallows hard and pulls himself together.  Moving to Castiel’s feet, he works at removing his boots.  Cas murmurs again, and Dean could almost swear it’s a name; Manuel maybe?

Is he calling out for a lover?  Dean’s stomach twists at the thought, and he curses himself silently for caring at all.  Then he curses how tight Cas’ boots are.

They finally come off after a struggle and Dean tosses them aside in disgust.  Cas is probably going to have blisters.

Cas’ eyes open and he groggily looks around until his eyes semi-focus in Dean’s direction.  “Dean?”

 _Well at least he’s not stuck on the last names anymore_ , Dean thinks.  “Go back to sleep,” he whispers gruffly, and Cas' eyes slip closed again.  He pulls Cas’ blanket from where it’s pinned under his hip and wraps it around him.  As he tucks it around Cas’ neck, his callused fingers brush skin.  Cas’ pulse beats gentle against Dean’s knuckles.

He shouldn’t touch, but Dean can’t resist.  He strokes the back of one finger over the rough stubble trying to turn into a beard along Cas’ jaw.

When Sam clears his throat, Dean jerks back as if burned.  How the hell had he forgotten they weren’t alone?

He stands abruptly, avoiding Sam’s eyes.  “I’ll take first watch.”

While Sam settles into his bedroll Dean strides over to the horses.  Baby greets him with a nudge, and he strokes over her storm gray muzzle.  He spends a few minutes giving each animal ear scratches to make up for the work he’s been putting them through.  

The night is quiet, which gives Dean far too much time to think about things he’d rather not.  When it’s Sam’s turn to take watch, he wakes his brother with a soft kick to his foot, and then settles down into the warm blankets Sam leaves behind.  

Long after the night air grows cold and the fire dies down, the memory of soft skin and rough stubble against his hand burns in his mind.


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel wakes with a start, images of sharp teeth and torn skin accompanied by phantom cries for help in his brother’s voice disappear as soon as his eyes flick open.  Shaken, he blinks up at the sky, light enough that the stars have disappeared even though the sun has yet to breach the horizon.

“You awake, Cas?”

He turns his head and sees Samuel peering at him from next to a tiny campfire.  The movement causes a cascade of protesting muscles.  He hurts everywhere.  He hurts in places too delicate to mention.  He hurts in places he didn’t even know existed.  Wincing, he goes still in hopes that his body will let him forget the ordeal he’s put it through.  “Yes.  Unfortunately.”

Samuel chuckles.  “Yeah, I get that feeling.”

With a bracing breath that turns into a pained groan, Castiel pulls himself into a sitting position.  He regrets it immediately and intensely, but is grateful that he’s at least able to move under his own power.  Walking will be a whole other problem, but he’ll deal with that when the time comes.  “Do you?” he asks Samuel with a raised brow.

The corner of Samuel’s mouth ticks up.  “Maybe not quite to the same extent.”  He pulls out a small vial and sprinkles a white dust into a mug sitting near the fire, then holds the mug out to Castiel.  “This should help.”

Eyeing the offering warily, Castiel asks “What did you put in it?

“Don’t worry!” Samuel smiles brightly.  “It’s just some willow bark powder.  It’ll help with the sore muscles.  I had a bit with my own coffee as well.”

If the brothers were going to kill him, they would have by now.  And Castiel doubts they’d bother with something as elaborate as poison when they could just put a bullet in him and leave his corpse to the desert.  But he still gives Samuel a long look, assessing him for hints of malice.

Samuel stares back steadily, his eyes understanding.  And full of kindness.  He’s always supported Castiel’s plan, and it’s frankly ridiculous for Castiel to continue to distrust him.

His hands are sore from where the reins rubbed them raw, so he carefully takes the cup with the tips of his fingers.  It’s almost too hot to touch, but he takes it eagerly when he gets a whiff of coffee.  He takes a careful sip, and sighs with pleasure over the thick brew.  Maybe a tad on the sludgy side, but just the way he likes it.  He barely tastes the willow bark.  “Thank you, Samuel,” he sighs when he lowers the cup.

“Might as well call me ‘Sam’.  Everyone does.” Samuel goes back to preparing what looks and smells like breakfast.

“Everyone except your brother?” Castiel asks conversationally against the rim of his cup.

Sam wrinkles his nose.  “He still thinks I’m a chubby twelve year old.”

His disgruntlement paired with the mental image of a shorter, but slightly rounder Sam makes Castiel laugh.  “I’m assuming that means he’ll always see me as a greenhorn?”

Sam grins, sharing his humor.  “Yeah probably.  Sorry.”

“I’ll just have to prove him otherwise.”

“Good luck with that,” Sam snorts.

Castiel acknowledges him with a smile and then looks around.  He’d have expected Dean to have them back on the trail at this hour.  But Sam appears to be in no hurry to break camp, and the rest of their gear is still there.  Only Dean and the horses are missing.  “Where is your brother?”

“There’s a spring a short distance from here.  He’s taking the horses to drink, and to fill the canteens.”

“Why didn’t we camp closer to it?”  There aren’t any trees nearby, although there are a few rocky outcrops that block his view of the terrain in some directions.  From this vantage he can’t see where Dean may have gone, so it must be some distance.

Teeth flashing in a grin, Sam sets up a small metal stand over the fire and puts a tiny skillet over it to warm up.  “It’s not safe to be too close to water out in the desert.  You’re more likely to run into unfriendly critters that way.”

Castiel remembers the yipping calls he’d heard in the darkness the evening before.  “Coyotes?”

Sam nods.  “Although sometimes they’re the least of our worries.”

It’s chilly with the sun yet to make its appearance, but that’s not what makes Castiel shiver.  Sam could very well be speaking of other travelers, but his tone hints of something worse than bandits.

He thinks of the small wooden case packed away with the rest of his belongings.  He’d purchased it for protection from things he doesn’t fully understand, creatures he isn’t sure he quite believes in, despite the things he’s heard and seen.  But the Winchesters seem to think it would be useless, which makes the unknown dangers of the world that much more frightening.

“May I ask you a question?” Castiel asks softly.

“Shoot,” Sam says without taking his attention from the food he’s preparing.

“Those people you killed in Tombstone…” a group of three, two beheaded and one exanguinated, “what were they?”

That gets Sam’s attention and he pins Castiel with a stare.  His eyes glow strangely in the firelight, and for one fanciful moment Castiel isn’t sure the man before him is entirely human.  Sam’s small smile banishes the illusion.  “Are you sure you want to know?”

It’s not an answer, but it confirms Castiel’s suspicions about the murder victims, and his stomach sinks.  “Yes,” he croaks.

Sam turns his attention back to the pan, which he’d filled with strips of bacon.  “Two were vampires.  We beheaded them, but not before they’d drained their victim.  That’s the real way to kill a vampire.  That wooden stake to the heart stuff is just a tall tale.”

Having it confirmed out loud makes Castiel feel as if the world is spinning a little too fast.  He lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Vampires.  Real vampires.

A hysterical laugh tries to bubble up in his throat, and he rubs his mouth with his fingers to contain it.  Sam eyes him warily, and Castiel wonders what kind of reaction he’s expecting.  How many people has he had this conversation with?  Castiel doubts many people would believe him; even his mind is trying to rebel against the idea, and he’d already begun to figure it out on his own.

“So,” he says after a long moment, “Vampires are real.  I suppose that means other fantastical creatures are too?”

“More than you could imagine.”

Castiel loses control of the laugh stuck in his throat and it breaks free.  He shakes his head and stares into the fire while his whole world view finishes rearranging itself.  It’s a process that started when he’d seen his brother’s mangled body and read the strange tales in his journal.  He’s been searching for the truth for a long time, and now he has confirmation from a living man.

“You’re taking this well,” Sam says.

“I’ve suspected for some time,” Castiel admits.  “There have been… odd occurrences in some of my cases.  And I’ve read things…” 

He thinks of his brother’s journal tucked away in his valise with the Winchester’s unsigned pardons.  Even without fully believing everything he’d read in it, he’d taken its messages to heart, even going so far as to memorize a passage of latin that Emmanuel insisted kept the darkest of evils from rising again.  An exorcism.  He wonders if Sam would recognize it.

“It’s not a huge leap to assume there is more to the world than what meets the eye,” he says.

Sam snorts.  “That’s one way of putting it.”

Castiel has a thousand more questions, but the sound of hooves brings his attention around.  He catches sight of Dean leading the horses back to camp.  He guides Honey and Bones by tethers, but Baby follows him freely.

With as worn out as Cas had been when they’d made camp last night, Dean is surprised to find him up.  Well, barely.  He’s still sitting in his bedroll, with his blanket draped around him.  But he looks alert and awake when he turns to watch Dean approach.

The sun crests the horizon and gold light tips Castiel’s wild hair and illuminates his profile.  It intensifies the lake blue of his eyes, giving them an otherworldly cast, but it also highlights the dark circles below them, revealing how exhausted he still is.

Guilt eats at Dean, which he responds to by getting pissed.  “You two going to lounge around like pampered ladies all day?”

Sam sends him a glare.  “Dean.”

He huffs in response and pretends to check over the horses.  “I’m just saying, we got a lot of ground to cover and we can’t dilly dally.”

“We can have breakfast before we leave,” Sam says flatly.  “And we’re less than half a day out.”

It’s a warning not to push too hard, or Sam’s gonna revolt.  And Dean knows he better heed it, or his brother will make his life hell.

Sighing, Dean relents, even if he doesn’t admit defeat out loud.  He gives Baby’s soft muzzle one last gentle pat, and then gives the same attention to the other horses when they nose in close for some affection as well, then joins Sam and Cas at the fire.  His timing is good because Sam is dishing out breakfast.

Dean’s mouth waters and he’s silently grateful that Cas included bacon in the provisions he’d purchased.  It’s not something he and Sam would have brought on their own, and it’s a special treat.  He shoves two pieces in his mouth and watches Cas poke at his own food curiously.

Castiel’s stomach rumbles at the promise of food.  He’s quite eager for the bacon, but his attention is caught by the biscuits Sam had fried in the bacon grease.  He picks one up and takes a delicate bite from the edge.  When the savory flavor spreads across his tongue, his eyes drop closed in bliss.  He shoves the rest in his mouth, chewing quickly so he can have another one.

When Cas lets out a pleased moan, Dean nearly chokes.  His traitorous brain wanders through several ways he could coax that noise from the man again, and he quickly tries to turn his thoughts away before his dick gets wind of any of those ideas.  “Jesus, Cas.  Sammy’s cooking isn’t that great.”

Cas’ jaw stops in mid-chew and his eyes pop open.  He stares at Dean with wide-eyed embarrassment for a brief moment before he ducks his head.  He sneaks a sip of his coffee, probably to wash down the mass of food he’d shoved in his mouth.  “My apologies, I seem to have forgotten my manners.”

Feeling the need to be obnoxious, Dean shoves half a biscuit in his mouth and speaks around it.  “Don’ worry ‘bout manners, Cas.  Ain’t got much use for ‘em m’self.”

Cas peeks up at him and a smile plays around the edges of his mouth.  “So I see.”

If the bacon weren’t so damn good, Dean would throw a piece at Sam’s stupid face for laughing.

“Still, I do apologize,” Cas says, smiling wider now, but slipping a piece of bacon between his teeth before continuing while he chews.  “I’m just very hungry.  And this is very good.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam says as he cleans his own plate, without food in his mouth, and without a single crumb on his shirt.  

Already Dean’s bad habits are rubbing off on the Pinkerton.  Maybe if they all live long enough, Dean can actually make a man out of the city boy.

_In more ways than one_.  Another thought he tucks away in a dark corner.  But he can’t help a soft laugh and a crooked smile, the kind that gets him attention from pretty women and handsome men alike.  “Well it’s a good thing Sam didn’t try to make anything fancier.  You’d probably sick it all up, cuz he sucks at making anything else.”

“Shut up, jerk,” Sam snipes.

“Bite me, bitch.”

Now that Castiel’s stomach is no longer trying to turn itself inside out with hunger he’s able to just sit back and watch the brothers bicker back and forth good naturedly.  It’s a side of them he wouldn’t have expected to see--wouldn’t have even expected the existence of.  Sam has always been calm and serious, but now he’s playful and laughing at his brother’s expense.  And Dean…

Until now Dean has been gruff and angry, a penned bull with a red flag in his sights.  Castiel understands that they met under less than appealing circumstances, and he doesn’t expect Dean to be his friend, but he has been quite harsh.  Now he smiles, and it makes him young, even with the lines forming around his eyes.  They’re soft with affection for his brother, despite the downright rude and awful things he’s saying to him.  And Castiel experiences a queer and sudden yearning to have that smile pointed at himself.

He shakes the thought away.  Even if they start to get along, he doubts Dean would appreciate being the object of Castiel’s odd fantasies.  Few men do.

Watching the brothers continue to tease each other also has the side effect of reminding Castiel that he’ll never have moments like this with Emmanuel again.  It’s that thought that wipes away the last of his appetite, and he sets his tin plate aside.

“You gonna eat that, Cas?” Dean asks, his eyes firmly on the last few bits of food Castiel had left uneaten.  

Stomach churning, Castiel nudges it closer to him. 

Dean sees something dark pass behind Cas’ eyes, and the soft smile he’d been wearing for the last few minutes disappears.  He’d blame Sam’s cooking, but the kid is actually pretty good at bacon and biscuits, and Cas had seemed to be enjoying them just fine.  He surreptitiously keeps an eye on Cas for the next few minutes, worried he might upchuck.  But he doesn’t really look ill, he looks… sad.

He wonders what Cas is thinking about.  What’s giving him that aura of loss that resonates with something deep inside of Dean.  And what brought it on when just minutes ago he was smirking at Dean and Sam’s antics?

It’s doubtful that Cas would care to share whatever heavy thoughts are weighing him down.  They’re virtual strangers, and far from friendly.

Not that Dean particularly wants to be friends with the stubborn, stuffy Pinkerton agent.  Whatever’s bothering him isn’t Dean’s business anyway.  Their relationship is purely functional, ending with Alistair’s capture, or more likely their painful deaths at his hands.

That grim thought wipes away Dean’s good humor.  “All right, enough lollygagging.  Sun’s up.  Get your gear together, Cas.”

The sun is barely peeking over the eastern horizon.  Castiel would hardly define that as ‘up’.  But he finds it unlikely that Dean will take that as an argument to delay.

Every muscle, sinew, and bone complains loud and clear when Castiel tries to get to his feet.  He’s sure he’d be much worse off if he hadn’t walked a little last night before bedding down, and Sam’s thoughtfulness in giving him something to relieve the pain.

“Put on your boots.  You can never tell what you might step on,” Dean says as he stands without any visible trouble, and saunters toward the horses.  His swagger seems to be enhanced by the outward bow of his legs.

“Obviously,” Castiel grits out.  Does Dean actually believe he doesn’t have enough sense to put his boots on?

“You might wanna shake ‘em out first,” Dean calls over his shoulder.

Castiel closes his eyes.  “Dear God, give me strength,” he whispers.  Strength not to kill Dean Winchester before he leads the way to Alistair White, that is.

Dean glances over his shoulder, and his mouth twists into a pleased grin.  He’s learned in the last few days to judge Cas’ level of silence.  At the moment he’s silently fuming, which gives Dean a small surge of satisfaction.  

Beyond Cas’ stiff shoulders Dean catches Sam rolling his eyes dramatically.  His brother kicks sand over the fire and starts to pack away the cooking supplies, but he casts amused glances between Cas and Dean.  He knows what’s coming, and apparently he doesn’t have as much of a problem with it as he did with Dean’s behavior for the last few days.

Dean isn’t going to be a complete monster to the guy anymore, but that doesn’t mean he can’t dish out a little bit of revenge in a more harmless fashion.  Sammy survived it when he was a kid, Cas’ll be just fine.

Doing nothing to hide his amusement, Dean turns back to his horse, silently counts to three, then asks “Did you shake them out yet?” 

_I don’t need a gun!_ Castiel thinks furiously.  _Anything that resembles a weapon will do nicely!_   In fact, he’s tempted to club Dean over the head with one of his boots.  He doesn’t understand why he should shake them out, but if he doesn’t ask, Dean will simply keep at him with that damn superior attitude of his.  

From the corner of his eye Castiel catches Sam turn away, trying to hide a smile.  It just increases his surety that he’s going to regret asking.

“All right, why should I shake out my boots?”

“Scorpions.”

Castiel blinks at Dean’s back.  “I beg your pardon?”

Dean tightens the cinch strap on Baby’s saddle, then flips down the stirrup.  He tries not to laugh at Cas’ stiff formality, and gives him a quick glance.  Cas still doesn’t have his boots on, but he’s rebuttoned his vest, put on his coat, and his unruly dark hair is once again hidden under his hat.  Even without his boots on, he looks like the prim and proper East Coast gentleman, hellbent on finding an outlaw that will absolutely drag him down to Hell if given the opportunity.

He prefers the softer, vulnerable man Cas’d been last night.

With perverse humor, he wonders what reaction he’d get if he told Cas that.  

“Probably deny the whole damn thing,” he mutters under his breath, without the slightest notion why that irritates him.  He shoves memories of last night back, along with the feelings they rouse, back into the oblivion of indifference.  

He slowly walks back toward Cas, stopping a little too close so that the other man has to tilt his head up to meet Dean’s eyes.  “Scorpions,” he repeats.  “They like to crawl into little nooks and crannies and hide.  Boots, blanket rolls, sometimes clothes.  You just never know where the little devils are gonna show up.

Their sting can kill a person,” he says after a pause.  Behind Cas, Sam palms his face and shakes his head.  “Real painfully too.  You swell up, your skin gets real tight, and you get a fever.  It’s the fever that gets you--causes huge blisters all over a person’s insides.  Then your throat swells shut and you can’t drink any water, and can barely breath.  If you’re lucky you’ll choke to death.  If you’re not, you’ll keep swelling up, blisters breaking open inside you, and you swell up more and more until POP!” 

He gestures with his fingers to indicate slimy things getting flung all over, then gives an exaggerated shudder.  “It’s not a pretty sight.”

Castiel stares at Dean wide-eyed.  He’s never heard of such a thing.  Surely Dean is joking!

Or… trying to scare him.  He wouldn’t put it past him.  

Still, he picks up one boot and peeks inside.  “Well, I suppose it’s best to be careful.”  

He upends both boots and gives them a shake.  Nothing falls out.

Dean hums thoughtfully.  “That should do it, but you never know.  One of them could be stuck up inside.”  He gathers up the rest of his things, and then straightens up to meet Cas’ nervous stare again.  “I’ll tell you what.  If there is one still inside and you get stung, Sammy an’ me will try to get your body back to your family.”

With that, Dean strolls away, bowlegs adding extra swing to his gait.  He whistles a jaunty tune that makes Castiel certain the outlaw is pranking him.  

Well, almost certain.  He casts a look at Sam, who gives him a solemn nod.  But there’s the slightest twinkle to his eye that casts doubt on the veracity of his confirmation.

Both Winchesters might be in on the joke, but Castiel decides not to tempt fate.  He shakes the boots again, knocking the soles together sharply to dislodge any stubborn creatures clinging to the insides.

When he looks up at Dean, he could swear the other man’s shoulders are shaking.  He levels a narrow eyed glare on the other man, but Dean looks back with guileless aplomb.

“Asshole,” he mutters as he bends to slip his boots on.  It’s a bit of a struggle, and they squeeze his aching toes painfully.  

“Get a move on, Cas,” Dean calls to him.  “It takes a few hours for the swelling to really get started.  We can reach Fort Buchanan before that.”  He swings himself into Baby’s saddle, and watches with amusement as Cas scrambles to pack up his things, muttering what are probably insults under his breath, too quiet for Dean to hear.  

“You’re a dick,” Sam murmurs from nearby.

He can’t argue that, and just shrugs in response while they wait on Cas.  “You’re playing along, Sammy.  Pot calling the kettle black there, ain’tcha?”

Cas is actually moving pretty well considering the shape he was in last night.  The willow powder he’d told Sam to give Cas must be doing its job.

But when Cas mounts up and lets out a hiss of pain, Dean frowns.  Cas cups one hand close to his chest and tries to handle the reins with the other, and Dean nudges Baby close enough that he can reach out and grab Cas’ wrist.  He doesn’t let the other man pull free, and forces his arm to turn until Dean can see his palm under half curled fingers.

A line of white, water filled blisters crosses Cas’ palm.  Some of them have broken open, revealing red raw skin underneath.  “I told you to get some gloves,” he snaps.  “A man can die of blood poisoning from something like this, Cas.”

Castiel tries unsuccessfully to yank free of Dean’s grasp, but it only tightens around his wrist until the bones ache.  He gives up quickly and glares his defiance at Dean.  “I’ll cover them if you’ll release me, Mr. Winchester.”

Anger flashes across Dean’s expression, and his fingers tighten again, making Castiel wince.  After a long moment, he makes a sound of disgust and releases him roughly.  Castiel cradles his hand close to his chest again, and turns his gaze away from Dean’s glare to look at his damaged palm with a pained grimace.

He won’t admit it out loud, but Dean was right about the gloves.  He’ll need to purchase some in town and hope that a handkerchief is enough to protect him from further harm.  

He startles when leather gloves are thrust practically under his nose.

“Put ‘em on, Cas,” Dean growls.  His own hands are now bare.

Castiel opens his mouth to decline, but something sharpens in Dean’s glare.  Deciding it would be prudent to forgo argument, both for the sake of his hands, and to avoid the silent threat in Dean’s eyes, Castiel clicks his teeth shut and accepts the gloves.

Dean immediately guides his horse away, starting on the long trek to their destination.  Castiel sits frozen, watching Dean’s shoulders shift with the darkly spotted horse’s movements.

“Here, this will help too,” Sam says softly, holding out a small jar.

Castiel accepts the offering without fuss this time.  When Sam follows Dean, Castiel’s horse automatically falls in behind him, unwilling to be left behind by its companions.

The pace is slow enough that Castiel is able to keep his balance without the use of his hands.  He carefully daubs the greasy ointment over the sores on his palms before slipping the gloves on.  His hands throb uncomfortably under the leather, but when he grips the reins, it’s far less painful than before.

Dean keeps the pace more reasonable than it’s been for the last two days, and he never turns around to catch Castiel’s thoughtful stare.


	8. Chapter 8

The sun sits at its zenith when buildings appear, and soon they’re riding through the edges of the small town thriving outside Fort Buchanan.  Castiel gets a glimpse of the train station he’d briefly visited several days ago, and directs a glare at Dean’s shoulders.

He’d wonder why on God’s green earth they didn’t take the train to save time, but he already knows.  Dean and his damned tests.  He’s trying to test Castiel’s mettle, but what he’s really testing is Castiel’s patience.  He refuses to let the outlaw get under his skin.  

The blisters and bruises don’t count.  

He’s not going to let Dean Winchester win this battle of wills, no matter how broken he feels at the moment.  At this point he’s already invested too much time and energy in the man, and it would be a waste to shoot him in the back and leave him for the vultures.

Nudging his horse to walk alongside Dean’s spotted mare, he asks “What are our plans now that we’re here?”

Dean lifts a brow at “our”.  _His_ plan is to get the Colt.  Even if he wasn’t riding along on this mad hunt, he’d need to get it back.  Broken Hand is a good man, but Samuel Colt entrusted it to John Winchester, and as far as Dean is concerned, that makes it his, along with the responsibility to use it.  

He didn’t want to take up Castiel’s mission, but the more he thinks about pointing the Colt at Alistair’s face and pulling the trigger, the less angry he is about the whole situation.  Heck, he might even be looking forward to it.  Just a little bit.

Cas looks back with the familiar stubborn lift of his chin, and Dean is torn between admiration for his gumption, and exasperation.  He goes with the latter.  “Gonna get my property back.”

“A gun?” Cas asks, annoyed.  “We could have purchased one in Tucson to save time.”

“Not one like this,” Dean says.  “It ain’t no ordinary gun.”

“Sam explained its sentimental value, but--”

Dean cuts into the argument before Cas can get any steam behind it.  “It kills monsters, okay?  You want to go after Alistair, and he’s the worst kind.  Hell, he’s _worse._ Ain’t nothin’ in that kit of yours that can take him on.  In fact, that gun is the _only_ thing that can.  If you don’t want this to be a suicide mission, then we’re getting the damn gun.  You got that?”

Castiel clicks his teeth shut and seethes at Dean’s tone.  If he’d known the weapon’s true significance he would have also insisted they obtain it.  There was no need for secrecy.

“Someday you’re going to need to start trusting me,” he grits out.  “We’re in this together, Mr. Winchester.”

The comment earns him a sharp glare, but no retort.  Without any visible input from Dean, the Appaloosa speeds up.  Beyond frustrated, Castiel watches Dean ride away.

Sam takes Dean’s place at his side.  “He’ll come around,” he says kindly.  “Dean’s a stubborn son of a bitch, but he’s a good man.  And he wants Alistair dead too.  He’s got more reason than most.”

So does Castiel.  

A pang of longing for his brother blocks the air in his chest, and he pushes out a breath, then pulls another one in.  He repeats until it feels like a normal action again.  When he looks at Sam, he finds the other man watching him with concern.  It’s gratifying that at least one of the Winchesters isn’t constantly fighting against him during every waking moment.  

Curiosity overcomes his frustration, and he gives Sam a questioning look.  “What exactly _is_ Alistair, Sam?”  

He had started this hunt thinking that Alistair White was only a man.  An evil man, with a black heart and a tarnished soul, but still a man.  Now that he knows monsters are real, and that the Winchesters have fought against them, he no longer believes Alistair is human.  He’s not sure a human could pull off the atrocities that Alistair White is known and wanted by the law for.

Shaking his head, Sam casts a significant look around them.  There isn’t anyone within earshot on the dusty road, but he seems nervous about the townsfolk anyway.  “Later.  When we’re somewhere safe.”

Castiel doesn’t see what Sam could consider dangerous about their surroundings.  In the heat of the day most folks have retreated into the relative comfort of the indoors.  The only people he sees hurrying along the boardwalks are intent on reaching shade, and hardly spare a glance for the strangers riding through their town.  But his rapport with the younger Winchester is good enough that he trusts Sam will give him the information he seeks later, as promised.  He nods his acceptance and they ride together in companionable silence.

They catch up to Dean just he comes to a stop in front of a small cabin on the far edge of town.  It barely looks more than a shack, but it is well tended.  The walls are white washed, and the single visible window contains actual glass, through which Castiel can see pale curtains.

Leaving their horses tethered to a post, they follow a small path to the house's entrance.  Dean, in the lead, knocks briskly on the thin wood door.  It takes less than a minute for it to open, revealing an older man with dark, weathered skin, long salt and pepper hair in tight braids, and piercing black eyes.  His suspicious glare intensifies when he sees them.

“Dean and Sam Winchester,” he says in an accent Castiel doesn’t recognize.  “If you’re here, I assume you’re bringing trouble to my door.”  That last is spoken while looking directly at Castiel.

“I think you know why we’re here,” Dean says dryly.

The man grunts.  “It ain’t for sale.”

Then he closes the door in their faces.

 _Of course it ain’t gonna be easy,_ Dean thinks.  He channels his annoyance into knocking again, much more sharply this time.  “We’re not leaving without my gun!”

Broken Hand’s voice comes muffled through the door.  “Ain’t yours anymore, boy.  I bought it, fair and legal.”

Fair isn’t exactly the word Dean would use, considering it was confiscated from him for ridding the town of a plague of blood sucking monsters.  “And we’re willing to buy it back!” he calls back.

“Don’t want your money!”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean sighs.  He exchanges a glance with Sam, silently asking for help.  Sammy’s always been better at talking people around, and he’d really rather not knock the door down and take the gun by force.

Sam doesn’t look all that certain about his chance for success, but he gives it a shot anyway.  He leans close to the door.  “Please, Broken Hand.  We believe you’re a good steward for the Colt, but it’s the only thing we can use on this hunt.”

“Hunt something else then!”

Oh for Hell’s sake.  They really don’t have time for this bullshit.  “We’re going after Alistair White!”

There’s a brief moment of silence and then the door opens again.  Broken Hand’s hard gaze falls on Dean.  “You are mad.”

Truer words may never have been spoken.  “Maybe,” Dean concedes.  “But you know all Winchesters are a little bit crazy.”

The old Apache’s scrutiny intensifies.  Dean’s pretty sure he ain’t a mind reader, but just in case, he does his best to project honesty and earnest intentions.  

Whatever he finds in Dean’s expression makes him grunt noncommittally.  He turns away from the door, but leaves it open behind him.  Dean exchanges a look with Sam, and follows the old man inside.

Broken Hand treads across the small space of the cabin and sits down heavily in one of the two chairs around the tiny table in the center of the room.  He leans back and returns his scrutiny to them.  “Why are you going after Alistair?  You got away.  Stay away.”

The last thing Dean wants to do is talk to Broken Hand about his time with Alistair.  He can barely bring himself to share any details with Sam, who would probably understand better than anyone, even if his own experience with being a demon’s thrall was far different.  “Someone has to stop him.”

“It doesn’t have to be you,” Broken Hand says kindly.  Dean doesn’t know what his history is with demons, and he isn’t ever going to ask.  But unlike many hunters, Broken Hand has always been understanding, even forgiving, of Dean’s time with Alistair.  

“He’s doing it because I asked him to.”

In his preoccupation with Broken Hand’s stubbornness, Dean had almost forgotten Cas’ presence.  Especially since he’d actually kept his mouth shut and let Dean do the talking, like he’d asked.  He jerks around to remind Cas to shut the hell up, but doesn’t get a chance.

Castiel can see that their argument isn’t just going nowhere, it had become circular, rehashing each point while neither man gave any ground.  If it's the truth about the Colt being the only weapon they can use against Alistair, then Castiel isn’t going to let it slip out of his grasp.  Despite the gathering storm in Dean’s eyes over the interruption, Castiel steps forward, bumping past Dean’s shoulder so that he’s no longer half-hidden behind the Winchesters and meets Broken Hand’s curious gaze.  “And I’m doing it for my brother.”

Broken Hand’s eyebrows go up.  “Revenge?”

“Retribution,” Castiel insists forcefully.  “Alistair White and his gang murdered my brother and destroyed the village he lived in.  I have tracked down the other members of his gang, and they have received their justice.  I won’t rest until--” his voice breaks, and he pauses.  When he’s sure of his control again, he continues.  “Alistair White is a wanted man.  I intend to bring him to justice.”

He can feel the weight of both Winchester brothers staring at him, but he doesn’t acknowledge them.  

“You will die for your retribution,” Broken Hand says quietly.  

“Then I will be reunited with my brother,” Castiel answers firmly.  “But if there’s even one small chance that we can defeat him, then we must take it.”

Dean stares at Cas’ profile and lets this new information integrate itself into his view of the man.  Around him the world falls away, and memories assault him from every angle.  The cries of Alistair’s victims, his own all encompassing pain day in and day out, and eventually the demon’s proud whispers against Dean’s ears as he--

Blinking away the visions of blood and pain, Dean refocuses on Cas.  All hope of talking the Pinkerton out of his quest to find Alistair fades away.  Cas may be less than fully prepared for what he’s trying to accomplish, but Dean sees now what he didn’t before.  

Castiel Jameson is already a hunter.  

With a sigh, he meets Sam’s eyes over Cas’ head.  He sees the same recognition in his brother’s hazel gaze.  

“Cas is right,” he says.  When Cas whips his head around to gawp at Dean in surprise, Dean gives him a wink then turns his attention to Broken Hand.  “We have a chance to get rid of Alistair for good.  But we can’t do it without your help.  We need the Colt.”

“If you fail, then Alistair will have the Colt,” Broken Hand says.  “And then where will the rest of us be?”

“Same place we were twenty years ago when it didn’t exist yet, I suspect,” Sam drawls.

That earns Sam a glare from the old Apache, but then he snorts in amusement.  With a huge sigh, Broken Hand slaps his thighs and stands.  “Well if I can’t talk you out of it, I suppose I don’t have much of a choice.”

A few steps take him to a chest at the end of his bed.  He opens it and brings out a familiar gun belt wrapped around a gun.  When Dean reaches for it, Broken Hand holds it away from him and presents it to Cas.  “Shoot to kill.  You’ll be lucky if you get one shot, there are no second chances.”

Ignoring Dean’s glare, Castiel accepts the gun.  It’s heavier than he expects.  “Thank you,” he says gravely. 

“Thank me by wiping that damned demon off the face of the earth,” Broken Hand says.  

Castiel’s eyes go wide.  

 _Demon_. 

He’d suspected… the pitch dark shadows leaving the bodies of the men he’d already brought to justice as they’d died… the latin in Emmanuel’s journal…

Broken Hand sees his surprise and chuckles.  “What did you think you were going after?”

A large hand on Castiel’s shoulder brings his attention around to Dean.  He stares into green eyes, no longer filled with derision, anger, or doubt.  For the first time since he’d met Dean Winchester in the Tombstone jail, Dean looks at him like an equal.  His eyes are full of understanding and compassion, and it makes Castiel want to lean into his touch.

Since their first meeting in the Tombstone jail, Cas has always looked some combination of angry and determined.  Mostly angry since Dean has been doing his damned best to drive Cas to go back home to the city were he belongs.  But now his eyes are wide with childlike confusion and loss.  Dean himself has known of the existence of demons since he was a child himself, but he remembers the fear and confusion when he’d learned what had killed his mother and destroyed all his chances for happiness.  

“We can do this, Cas,” he says softly.  

He doesn’t know if it’s really true.  Alistair isn’t just any demon.  He’s far far worse than anything else he’s ever hunted, and that includes the demon that his father hunted for most of Dean’s life.  

But he’s in this now.  And Cas needs to be too. 

Castiel expected another offer to back out.  To give up on his quest and go back home.  Dean’s quietly spoken assurance is more of a surprise than the fact that Emmanuel’s killer is a demon.

He realizes his jaw is sagging and he tightens it.  Straightening to his full height he nods curtly.  “Yes.” He glances at Sam and finds more confidence and support in his expression.  “Yes we can.  We will.”

* * *

“We need to stop in the mercantile for supplies,” Dean says as they mount up outside Broken Hand’s home, “and then we can get back on the trail.”

Castiel turns in his saddle, wincing as his abused muscles protest the movement.  “We’re not staying the night?”

“There’s plenty of daylight left, Cas.” Dean flicks him a blank look before nudging Baby back onto the dusty road.  “We can make good time if we don’t dawdle.”

Sighing, Castiel urges his own mount to follow.  He feels every speck of dirt on his skin, and he itches under his clothes where he’s sticky with sweat.  He’d been hoping for a short reprieve.  A bath, and a shave, and a hot meal.  And one night in a bed, even a small lumpy one, would be a luxury after the last few nights on the trail.  

He mourns the chance to rest, but he’d agreed to allow Dean to lead this expedition.  If he wants to leave before nightfall, Castiel won’t argue.  Plus, any delay means that Alistair could slip further out of his grasp.  Now that Dean is fully on board with hunting the outlaw-- _demon!--_ down, Castiel won’t do anything that might change his mind.

He’s also fully aware that getting back on the trail today may be another form of punishment.  Dean was not happy when Broken Hand insisted that the Colt be handed over to Castiel.  He hasn’t backed down from a single challenge Dean has put before him so far, and he doesn’t intend to start now. 

“By all means, then,” he says dryly as he nudges his horse into a fast trot back towards the center of town. “We’d better not dawdle.”

If looks were bullets, there would probably be a bloody hole between Castiel’s shoulder blades.  He can almost feel the heat of Dean’s ire, and as a small form of revenge for the torture Dean has put him through for the last few days, he reaches down and adjusts the gunbelt wrapped around his hips.

A soft curse makes Castiel smile. 

Dean glares at Cas’ retreating back.  “Maybe we should just kill him and take the Colt and our amnesty papers,” he mutters.

“A guy that stubborn would find a way to haunt you even if you salt and burn him,” Sam says.  He crosses his wrists over his saddle horn and gives Dean an amused look.  "Cas got the Colt fair and square, and maybe if you weren't such an ornery piece of horseshit to him, you wouldn't be in this mess." 

Dean redirected his glare at his brother.  “Who’s side are you on, anyway?”

The only answer he receives is a lazy grin.  Then Sam takes up his reins and goes after Cas, pushing his horse into a faster pace to catch up.

Dean trails behind, grumbling about shooting obnoxious greenhorns and little brothers.

In the mercantile, Dean finds Sam speaking to the owner in a low voice.  They’ve purchased from him before, and he carries supplies that only Hunters would ask for.  Dean exchanges a nod of greeting with the owner, and leaves Sam to obtain what they need.  He scans the large interior but doesn’t immediately see Cas.  When he glances at his brother again, Sam gestures toward the back of the store, indicating Cas disappeared behind the maze of shelves.

Trusting Sam to take care of their logistical needs, Dean strolls through the store, weaving between barrels of beans and flour, and shelves of canned goods.  He rounds the end of the last shelf and finally finds the man he’s looking for.  He comes to a stop at Cas’ side, close enough to feel his body heat.  Cas looks up from the pile of gloves he’s sorting through and gives Dean a suspicious squint.  

Up close it’s hard to ignore how handsome Cas is.  Even rumpled from hard riding and slightly red from too many hours in the sun, he tempts Dean.  

His eyes drop to Castiel’s dry lips, and he wonders what it would be like to pull him close and kiss him.  He would taste of sun and wind, dry desert and cool nights.

And there would be heat.  Dean has a feeling that Cas is capable of the kind of passion that would brand him, leaving him with the memory of his touch for the rest of his life.

Under normal circumstances Dean would do his best to get a taste of that kind of fire.  If Cas weren’t dragging Dean back into a hell he’d thought he’d escaped for good, and worse, was dragging Sammy along with them.

“Do you need something, Dean?” Cas asks. 

Need.  It’s subtle, riding along every nerve ending in little sparks of restless energy.  Dean takes a deep breath to get back the control that means safety, and feels it skitter out of his grasp.  

Castiel wonders if he’ll ever become accustomed to the nearly physical weight of Dean’s gaze.  When it drops to Castiel’s lips, he licks them reflexively.  A jolt of _something_ slides down his spine, and he nearly shivers.  Only the same control that has kept him powering through fatigue and pain keeps him from displaying any outward indication of the way Dean shakes him when he stares with hooded green eyes.

Instead of answering, Dean reaches for Castiel’s hand.  His grip is gentle as he turns Castiel’s palm up, and he turns his attention to the raw and inflamed skin.  He traces the healthy skin around it.  “Have Sammy take a look at your hands before you put your gloves back on,” he says gruffly.  

There’s something in his voice that Castiel doesn’t recognize, but it makes something deep inside him curl into a knot of tightly-wound heat, and his breath catches in his throat.  His skin tingles where it contacts Dean’s, and he wonders what it might feel like to press into those hands.  To feel their unrestrained strength on the rest of his body.

He jerks his hand out of Dean’s grasp, a self protective reaction.  His voice is a shaky whisper.  “Don’t touch me.”

Dean’s expression shifts to curiosity tinged with anger as Castiel tries to sidestep around him.  “Why?”

Castiel’s head snaps up.  He isn’t used to being questioned, but Dean does it often and he really shouldn’t be as surprised as he is by it.  

Maybe if he had a good answer, he wouldn’t be so confounded.  

“Sam has already given me instructions on how to care for my injuries,” he says stiffly.  “I don’t need your advice.”

Dean steps closer, and braces his hands on the shelves behind Castiel’s shoulders.  Penetrating green eyes pin him in place, making it impossible to escape even if Castiel weren’t penned in by Dean’s body.  “What _do_ you need from me, Cas?”

Everything Castiel had ever learned about Dean comes back to him in a rush of apprehension.  This man is dangerous, more dangerous as he takes a half-step closer, shutting out the safe distance between them.  “I… I need you as a guide…”

Dean silences Cas with a thumb pressed gently over his lips.  “What do you really need, Cas?”

He could kiss Cas right now.  They’re hidden from view by tall shelves of canned goods.  And he suspects he wouldn’t even get a fist in the face for it.  He lifts his thumb away, brushing it lightly along Cas’ pinkened cheek.  Confusion and something else darkens Cas’ blue eyes, and he draws in an uncertain breath.  

“I need you…” Castiel gets no further, stymied by the confusing game of words.

“Yes you do,” Dean answers softly, almost gently.  His eyes drop to Castiel’s lips again.  

Then his expression changes, going hard.  “Let’s get those supplies.”  His voice is once more indifferent.  “We’ll need more than just hardtack and coffee when we leave here.”

Castiel stares after Dean as he disappears between the shelves crowding the store.  For a moment he hadn’t been the outlaw described in handbills and Pinkerton files--the cold, hardened gunfighter he’d saved from the gallows in Tombstone.  For just a moment Castiel had seen a side of Dean he knew nothing about, and he wonders about all the things that never appear in his files--about Dean Winchester, the man.

He finds Dean next to Sam at the long wooden counter when he emerges from the maze of shelves.  The brothers are going over a written list of the supplies they need.  

Dean nods to the owner of the store and turns around to address Castiel.  “Make sure you find yourself some gloves, because I’m going to need mine back.”  Then he moves past Castiel to the door.

He pauses and gives Castiel a thorough inspection.  “You might want to get some different clothes too.  Those fancy duds ain’t gonna hold up for where we’re going.  Get yourself some better pants at least.  It’ll make it easier to ride.”

“I’m doing very well, thank you.  I’m quite comfortable the way I am.”

“Yeah,” Dean rolls his tongue in his cheek.  “And I’ll just bet you’ve got blisters on your backside to match the ones on your hands.”

Of all the insufferable, overbearing, _rude_ things to say!  Castiel’s cheeks go flame warm with embarrassment but before he recovers enough to tell Dean exactly what he thinks of his suggestion, Dean is on his way out the door.

“Hurry it up,” Dean calls over his shoulder.  “We can still ride several more hours before sundown.”

Castiel thinks wistfully of sleeping on something other than the ground or the moving backside of a horse.  He believes one night on a mattress would do him wonders, but Dean isn’t the least concerned with his need for comfort, despite the warning he’d given about Castiel’s blistered palms.  It’s likely the only thing that concerns him is that Castiel not die of blood poisoning before he signs the authorization for the amnesty papers.

Dean must have forgotten something on the list, because he pokes his head back through the door and smiles at the owner of the shop.  “Just total everything up.  The gentleman will pay for it.”  With that he’s gone, the door banging loudly as it falls shut behind him.

Looking to Sam, Castiel finds him smiling sympathetically.  “He’s right about the clothes,” Sam says.  “It’ll help.”

Sighing, Castiel acknowledges that the suggestion is only practical.  He returns to the back of the store and picks out a pair of buttery soft gloves, and chooses a pair of denim pants.  

When he returns, the storekeeper adds his purchases to the bill.  Before paying it, Castiel looks over the list, and he frowns at some of the strange things on the list.  “Sam?  Why do we need these things?”

Casting a meaningful look at the shop’s owner, Sam says “trust me, they’re important.”

If it were Dean, Castiel might have argued further.  But it is far easier to take Sam at his word.  He pays the bill and walks out onto the boardwalk with Sam.  Since some of their purchases will take time to pack up, he goes over to the boarding house and changes into the new pants.

They are somewhat stiff, but they seem to breathe better than his wool pants.  Reluctantly he admits to himself that the cooler clothing will be a much better option than what he was wearing before.  He decides to leave off his waistcoat and necktie as well, folding them neatly to be packed away in his saddle bags.

By the time he’s finished changing and returned to the horses tied in front of the mercantile, Dean is there with Sam, waiting for him.  

His gaze immediately fastens on Castiel’s clothing.  “Well look at that, he can follow directions.”

Castiel’s jaw muscles go rigid.  He makes a silent promise to himself that he can shoot Dean after they find Alistair, and pulls Dean’s gloves from his pocket and holds them out for the other man to take.  “Thank you for allowing me to borrow them.”

Dean’s fingers brush against his when he takes them back.  The same heat that assaulted him in the store when Dean cradled his hand flows through him again.  

It annoys him that Dean seems completely unaffected.

“This is your last chance to change your mind, Cas,” Dean says as he pulls on the gloves.  “It’s a hard ride across the high desert, and there’s more dangerous things out there than a lack of water and shade.”

In answer, Castiel seizes his gelding’s reins and carefully pulls himself into the saddle.  He glares down at Dean.  “I haven’t changed my mind.”

Dean sighs and mounts his own horse.  He adjusts his hat and gives Castiel a hard look from under the brim.  After a long moment, he jerks his chin in a nod and turns the Appaloosa away.  Sam rides up alongside Castiel and gives him a reassuring smile before joining his brother.

After several long seconds of considering Dean’s warning, Castiel lightly nudges his heels against his horse’s sides and guides her to follow.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel is glad he chose to follow at least some of Dean’s instructions about his clothing.  The denim pants are certainly more comfortable, and he grudgingly accepts that his boots probably aren’t as well suited to this trip as he’d thought.  The desert east of Fort Buchanan is hot and dry and there is very little opportunity for shade.  So when Sam suggests he remove his coat and shield the back of his neck with a folded handkerchief, he readily complies.  

Dean still pushes them hard, riding away from town until the stars dot the sky and making them rise again before the sun, but Castiel’s body no longer seems to be punishing him so harshly for long hours in the saddle.  He’s still exhausted and sore, but he’s either becoming accustomed to it, or his body has given up on the promise of rest.

The relentless pace leaves little room for conversation, and between the silence, the steady sway of his horse as it picks its way over the invisible trail, and the fading pain, he begins to feel drowsy.  He’s still uncertain of his ability to stay in the saddle if he dozes, so for the first day he keeps himself awake by squeezing his hands around the reins to send a shock of pain through his palms.  But with proper gloves protecting them and the application of Sam’s salves, that trick won’t last him very long as the damage heals.

The last thing he needs is to fall out of the saddle and break his neck.  Dean is still upset that Broken Hand wouldn’t give him the Colt, and he’s been short with Castiel since they left the mercantile.  Castiel has a feeling that Dean would be rather upset with him for dying on him before signing the pardons.

Castiel lifts a hand and brushes a gloved thumb over his bottom lip.  He’s felt the ghostly pressure of Dean’s touch since it happened, and he’s unable to get the memory of Dean’s darkened eyes out of his mind.  For the space of a few seconds he’d been sure Dean was going to kiss him there among the shelves of canned goods and pre-made clothing.

It can’t possibly have been so, and Castiel has been mentally berating himself for such fanciful thoughts since the prior day.  

He wonders if Dean’s lips are as soft as they look.

Good lord, he really needs to _stop._

What he needs is a distraction.  To keep his thoughts from lingering on that stolen moment, and to keep him away.

As if reading his mind, Sam glances over his shoulder at Castiel and then slows his horse so that they’re riding side by side.  He offers Castiel his canteen, even though there is a full one hanging from Castiel’s saddle.  

Smiling his gratitude, Castiel accepts the offer.  He unscrews the cap and takes a small sip, following the lessons he’d learned the first day of travel from Tucson to Fort Buchanan.  Just enough to moisten his mouth and throat and no more.  Water is limited in the desert and must be preserved as much as possible.

Even warm, the water is delicious on his parched tongue.  He sighs his relief as he lowers and recaps it.  “Thank you, Sam,” he says as he hands it back.

Sam acknowledges his gratitude with a nod, and Castiel expects him to fall back in the line they usually ride in, but he stays at Castiel’s side.  “I’m sorry about your brother,” he says softly.

The pain of his brother’s death hasn’t lessened over the years, but it no longer sits with him as a constant companion.  In some ways that makes every reminder even more painful.  He swallows back a sudden lump in his throat.  “Thank you,” he manages gruffly.

He waits for the inevitable questions.  The falsely polite echelons of Philadelphia society bombarded him with them constantly.  And the question most often asked: _How did he die?_

That had been difficult to answer.  Even uneducated on such matters it had been clear that he hadn’t been killed by a wild animal as most assumed.  But how could he explain that things in Emmanuel’s journal made him suspect that he had not been mauled by a bear as he’d been told by the authorities that found him?

Especially since he doubts an entire village would have been slaughtered by the same bear.

He tries to imagine telling guests at Aunt Naomi's formal dinners that Emmanuel was tortured to death by a demon.  The gossip would likely transfer from Emmanuel’s death to Castiel’s sanity.

After several long minutes he realizes that Sam has no intention of prying for more information.  He’s probably perfectly aware of what kind of horror a demon would inflict upon someone, and all he’s offering is condolences and company.

Castiel finds himself speaking.

“We were twins, Emmanuel and I.”

Sam gives him a curious glance.  “Oh?”

Again, no prying questions, merely an expression of interest that Castiel could ignore or respond to.  Castiel lets his mind wander to the better memories of his brother--specifically the times they played pranks on people to see if they could tell the boys apart.  Naomi was never fooled.  She knew them too well.  “Identical in looks, if not personality.”

Chuckling, Sam says “let me guess, he was the wild one and you were the perfect son?”

“Quite the opposite.”  He laughs at Sam’s disbelieving squint.  “It’s true!  I was a constant source of stress and annoyance--” and often the one who suggested switching places, “--to dear Aunt Naomi.  She raised us when our parents passed.”  He waves away Sam’s attempts at condolences.  They’d left his life so early, that he barely thinks of them as his parents anymore.  “Emmanuel was quite the scholar, and he chose to study theology.  He eventually joined the clergy and moved West where he believed he was most needed.”

“A priest?” Sam asks.  “Was your family religious?”

“Aunt Naomi was.  I didn’t care much for it myself; I found it boring at best and at worst I questioned why a god that allowed children to become orphans deserved my faith.”

Sam snorts wryly.  “I understand the sentiment.”

Dean isn’t eavesdropping.  Out in the open with only the susurration of the wind and the occasional bird call, he can’t help but overhear the conversation.  The territory theyheading into isn’t exactly safe, Broken Hand had warned him of renegade Apaches, but his attention splits between watching the trail and thoughts of the things Cas spoke of.

He tries to imagine two men with Cas’ piercing blue eyes and wild dark hair.  It seems strange to think of him as the wilder of the two until Dean pictures one in severe priestly garb, and a bible cradled in the crook of his arm.  

The odd juxtaposition makes him smile.  But it fades when he remembers that Cas’ brother is dead, at Alistair’s hand.  He knows exactly what Cas’ brother would have looked like when his body was recovered, and his stomach turns sour.  He knows every cut, every broken bone, every separated joint--

He forces his mind blank when bile rises in his throat.  

Inhaling deeply, he holds it until his chest aches and then lets the air out slow, through his nose.  In through his mouth, hold, out through his nose.  He repeats the exercise until he no longer feels like he’s going to lose what’s left of his meager breakfast in the dirt under Baby’s hooves.

At least he knows that Emmanuel is not one of Alistair’s toys that came under his own knife.  His time with Alistair is a haze of blood and pain and horror, but he remembers the face of every one of his own victims.  If Cas’ twin were one of them, he would have recognized him immediately in the jailhouse in Tombstone.

Probably would have scared the hell out of him, thinking the man in front of him was either a zombie, or a demon’s meatsuit.

Castiel and Sam ride in silence for long minutes, each contemplating the nature of God, lost family, and the lack of fairness in the world.  At least Castiel does, but he feels a kinship with Sam over their shared opinions on God.

“Tell me about hunting?” Castiel asks after the silence has stretched on for a while.

Sam casts him a sideways glance, his expression brimming with wry amusement.  “I suppose we should teach you a few things, huh?”  He laughs and adds “Man, you are so lucky you didn’t try going after a real vampire with that kit of yours.”

“Is it really of no use at all? Castiel asks.

“Well that booklet it came with was complete bullshit.”

“But the man I purchased it from assured me--”

“No, Cas.  Complete and utter bullshit.” Sam grins brightly, but it doesn’t feel like he’s mocking Castiel. “The bullets are useful, but not against vampires.  And I’d be surprised if the ‘holy’ water is actually blessed.”

Frowning, Castiel wishes he could track down the man who sold the kit to him and give him a piece of his mind.  He’d been full of assurances about it’s efficacy, but he’d not only walked away with a hefty sum of money, he’d also endangered Castiel by sending him away with fake weapons.  

“Then how do you kill a vampire?” he asks.

“Well for one, crosses don’t do jack shit.”

Twisting in his saddle so that he can more properly look at Sam, he barely notices the twinge of discomfort in his back and legs.  Maybe he’s finally becoming accustomed to the long periods of riding.  “But vampires are unholy creatures, aren’t they?”

Sam chuckles.  “You have _no_ idea.  But they’re not so unholy that they’re affected by crosses and holy water.  And sunlight won’t kill them either.  Just stings like a bitch, which might slow them down, but not much.”

With just a press of his knees, Dean asks Baby to slow so that he can fall back to ride on Cas’ other side.  “And that stake through the heart horseshit doesn’t work either,” he adds when Cas turns to him with a coolly curious look; probably not trusting that Dean isn't about to take another dig at him.  Dean doesn’t allow himself to think it’s with good reason; Cas chose this crusade, not Dean.  “That only works on dead people brought back to life through necromancy.  Or maybe a demigod.”

The way Cas’ eyes go wide and his jaw drops is extremely gratifying.  “Pardon me, but did you say _demigod?”_

Usually when they’re giving out information about the monsters they hunt it’s to a stunned victim.  Someone haunted by granny’s disgruntled ghost, or someone who’s lost a loved one to a rugaru attack, or worse, been infected by a werewolf bite.  They’ve never actually trained a new hunter before.  Dean probably shouldn’t be entertained by rocking Cas’ worldview, but he gains a wicked sort of pleasure out of shocking the Pinkerton to his core.

He only grins at Cas and waits for the revelation that demigods are a real thing sink in.

It doesn’t seem to take too long, and Dean is grudgingly impressed when Cas pulls himself together after only a few seconds.  Some folks never recover.

“So how _do_ you kill a vampire?” Cas asks again.

Dean drags a finger across his throat.  “Gotta take off the head.”

Newly sun-darkened skin goes pale, and Cas swallows.  “Well… that sounds rather simple.”

Sam snorts.  “No it ain’t.”

“No it aint!” Dean crows in agreement.  “Nothing simple about getting into striking distance with a creature that’s whole existence is hunting and killing humans.  Might be easier to walk up to a bear and poke it on the nose.”  And because he’s a jackass, he reaches out and flicks the tip of Cas’ nose, grinning when he briefly goes cross eyed looking down at Dean’s finger.

He braces for a scolding for touching him, but Cas only blinks at him, his face scrunched up in annoyance.  Then his face clears and he peers off into the distance where the horizon is darkening while the sun goes down behind them.

All this new information leaves Castiel’s head spinning.  Despite suspecting it for a long time, and knowing the truth for at least a few days now, just the fact that _monsters exist_ is monumental.  And _demigods_?What else is out there that he--that almost everyone--doesn’t know about?  

“How do you know all of this?” he asks after a few moments.

“We were raised in the life,” Sam says, and there’s an undercurrent of bitterness in the statement that leaves Castiel curious, but he’s too polite to ask.  “Our father taught us most of what we know.  We’ve met other hunters along the way, and some things we’ve had to figure out through trial and error.”

“An error usually gets people killed,” Dean adds darkly.  “We’ve been lucky.”

Indeed.  Castiel doubts he would have survived a run in with a vampire.  Not with how underprepared he’d been.  

Sam distracts him from imagining the horror of holding up a cross as a shield against a monster that wouldn’t be affected by it  The younger Winchester rummages through one of his saddle bags and pulls out a leatherbound book.  He holds it out to Castiel.  “This improves our chances.  You can look through it if you’d like.”

“Sammy,” Dean says warningly.

“He needs to know this stuff,” Sam counters firmly.

Castiel glances back and forth between the brothers and wonders what they’re silently communicating over his head.  He hesitates, waiting for them to resolve whatever disagreement they’re having.  Finally, Dean’s shoulders relax and he looks away, conceding the argument.

Draping his reins over his saddle horn, Castiel accepts the book.  His hands are stiff and clumsy in his new gloves, and he fumbles with the strap of leather tying the book closed, but is eventually able to flip it open.

The brothers are silent as he scans the first few pages.  What he finds makes his jaw go slack.

He doesn’t understand everything he’s seeing, because not all of it is written in English.  Quite a bit of it appears to be written in code.  But there are also sketches of monsters on almost every page.  What he can read are lists of traits, known techniques on how to kill them.  There are also what look like recipes, whole pages of Latin script and strange symbols.  The latter make his vision blur uncomfortably just from glancing at them, like his eyes don’t want to see their details.

“Is this a bestiary?”

Sam tilts his head side to side as he considers Castiel’s question.  “Something like that,” he says.

Castiel runs his thumb along the ragged edges of the journal’s pages.  Not all of them are original; many are scraps of paper or clippings from newspapers jammed between the pages to add information to existing entries.  It must contain decades of research.

“Go ahead and read through it,” Sam says.  “Let me know if you have any questions.”

He already feels like he has a thousand.  “Thank you, Sam.”

At first Castiel has trouble parsing the coded shorthand, but after a few tips from Sam he works it out well enough that he can read it, if slowly.  

The contents of the journal send chills across his skin, despite the baking heat of the desert.  There are werewolves and vampires, of course.  A whole page, front and back, dedicated to witches, with information on hex bags and counter spells.  It’s not a relief to learn that they are just human and can be killed easily.  Not when it’s also clear that they are still difficult to get close to, and are often shielded by powerful magic.  Rugaroos, wendigos, and even Japanese forest spirits; creatures Castiel has never heard of cover every page.

He allows his horse to follow Sam and Dean without any guidance as he continues to read, despite the failing light.  When it grows too dark, he closes the journal and holds it tight against his chest.  His mind tries to rebel against what he’s learned.  Especially the things that match unsolved cases he’s investigated or assisted with during his career.  Strange cases of missing hearts, tiny holes in skulls, or exsanguinated bodies left in the safety of their drawing rooms.  The journal provides missing pieces to puzzles, giving him a more complete picture of the crimes.

He wants to go back to every file, pour over them with his newly aquired knowledge.  But even if he does find that the victims were killed by monsters, how could he ever explain something like that to their families?  How on earth would anyone believe him?  He’s beginning to see why the existence of such dark creatures is considered mere fantasy.  

When Dean finally calls a halt for the evening he watches Cas move around the campsite in a daze.  The detective unsaddles his horse and cares for her needs, and helps Sam gather fuel for a fire when he’s asked, but is otherwise quiet and subdued.  The exhausted silence of the last few nights has been replaced with a more heavy kind of quiet.

Dean can practically _hear_ Cas thinking.

Since a fire will be too dangerous after tonight, Sam starts dinner with the last of their perishable food.  While he cooks, Cas re-opens John’s journal and squints down at the pages.  It’s strange seeing the book in Cas’ hands.  It isn’t something they usually share outside family.

Cas cradles the book in large, gentle hands, treating each page as if it were the most fragile material when he flips between them.  Dean watches the firelight play over Cas’ fingers and wonders if they would be as gentle on his skin or if they’re capable of leaving bruises for Dean to savor for days.  

Aaaand that’s enough of that.  “You should probably take a break, Cas,” he says.  “That shit’ll give you nightmares.”

Castiel looks up to find Dean sitting nearby, his features alternately shadowed and illuminated by the flames of Sam’s cooking fire.  He closes the journal and runs his palm over the weathered cover.  “It is a lot to take in.”

In the flickering light, Dean’s wicked grin takes on a sinister cast.  “That’s what she said.”  His smile fades and he clears his throat when Castiel only frowns at him in confusion.  “I mean, uh.  Yeah, I can see how it would be overwhelming.”

Castiel feels like he missed a joke, but it’s not one he feels like pursuing, so he ignores the first comment to address the second.  “It’s all real then?  Everything in here?”

Dean’s eyes drop to the journal in Castiel’s hands, and his mouth twists into something too bitter to be described as a smile.  “Everything in there is, yeah.”

With the sun down, the desert air has cooled significantly and Castiel is grateful for the heat of the fire.  But the cool air has nothing to do with the shiver that rides his spine.  “Even the--” he licks his lips, feeling them dry out almost immediately when he continues, “even the information about demons?”

A muscle jumps in Dean’s jaw and he turns his attention away.  Sam is carefully keeping his eyes on the last rasher of frying bacon in the pan, pretending he isn’t listening to the conversation with keen ears.  Dean stares out into the desert for a long time.  When he finally speaks, his voice is gruff and low.  “Yeah, Cas.  Even the stuff about demons.”

As if punched in the chest, Castiel loses all the air in his lungs.  He turns to look out at the desert as well.  In the silvery moonlight he can see movement in the distance.  A loud squeal pierces the night and a shadow passes through the sky.  He assumes it’s an owl carrying away a fresh meal in its talons, but he knows now that it could more than just a bird; it could be anything.

Suddenly he feels the need to repeat every prayer he’d ever learned at Aunt Naomi’s side.  

Monsters are real.  He has yet to see one himself, but he believes.  He looks at Sam, sitting cross-legged near the fire, calmly preparing dinner.  And a glance at Dean reveals a man who is comfortable with the world around him despite the fact that he’s hunted things that most people believe only exist in stories.  

Their relaxed demeanors comfort Castiel.  Yes, monsters are real, but there are people like the Winchesters fighting to protect humans from their threat.  The fear that had been bubbling up inside him drains away.  The world is still the same as the one he’d grown up in.  It isn’t any darker or more threatening than before.  It’s just a little more complicated.

Dean watches the emotions journeying across Cas’ face and wonders where he’ll end up.  At this point Dean doesn’t think Cas is bound to go screaming into the desert, maddened by everything he’s learned today, but he knows from experience that Cas will never be the same again.  He’ll look at the world with new, wary eyes, and he’ll never see a shadow as a harmless absence of light ever again.

After a few moments of silence, Cas turns and starts digging through his saddle bags.  He comes up with a small book, leatherbound like John’s journal, but thinner and less worn.  

Cas chews at his bottom lip for a few heartbeats, casting looks heavy with consideration between Sam and Dean.  Then he opens the book and flips to a page near the center.  “This is my brother’s journal,” he says so softly that Dean barely hears him over the crackle of flames and the cricket song filling the night air.

When Dean exchanges a glance with Sam, he can see his own curiosity reflected in his brother’s eyes.  They both wait quietly for Cas to continue.

Castiel stares down at Emmanuel’s last entry.  His handwriting had always been painfully neat, but the words on the page are jagged and shaky.  The words are in Latin, a language that Castiel has rudimentary knowledge of despite how hard he’d tried to ignore his tutors.  But he wouldn’t be able to understand their purpose without the simple note at the bottom of the page, that the words can be used to banish evil.

What had his brother seen?  Why were his last words written with fear in the lines of ink?  Whatever it was will remain a mystery forever because Emmanuel didn’t record the tale in the pages of his journal.  Only a smudged bloody fingerprint on the paper gives any hint to the story.

Empathy coils in Dean’s chest as he watches Cas.  He recognizes the sense of loss and confusion, and the fear.  Especially the fear.  It’s been his constant companion since childhood.

“May I?” Sam asks, breaking the heavy silence.

Castiel had brought out the journal to share with the brothers, but it’s still difficult to hand it over.  The compassion in Sam’s eyes helps.

“This is the last entry,” he says gruffly.  “Dated just a few days before he--”  

He can’t say it out loud.  But they know, so further explanation is unnecessary.  He watches dully as Sam takes the journal and scans the page.  If he thinks anything about the blood, he doesn’t show any outward reaction.

“This is an exorcism,” Sam says.  “Not the one we usually use, but it appears to have everything needed to be effective.”

“You read Latin?” Castiel asks, surprised that Sam would have access to such formal education.

Sam’s smile is a mixture of pride and amusement.  “I’ve had reason to learn.”

Dean rolls his eyes at Sam’s humility.  The kid knows at least four languages fluently.  He watches his brother pass the journal back to Cas, and he itches to see its contents, but he’s still surprised when Cas offers it to him.  Their fingers brush when Dean takes it, and their eyes meet across the fire.  

An unspoken trust passes between them as Cas relinquishes the book to Dean’s care.  The moment is fleeting, but it still rocks something inside of Dean.  He doesn’t bother to examine his feelings though, instead turning his attention to the book, but he still holds it with the same careful reverence that Cas showed John’s journal.  

He isn’t as skilled at reading Latin as Sam, but he knows enough to recognize the gist of the written passage.  His eyes linger on a smudged fingerprint.  It’s hard to tell in the firelight, but he’d bet Baby’s horse shoes that it’s blood.  Since Cas’ brother was able to write this down after a confrontation with a demon then it is probably effective, as Sam proclaimed it.

Unfortunately very few exorcisms are effective against a demon of Alistair’s calibre.  Only the most powerful ones can drive Alistair from his vessel, but he’ll just crawl into another poor bastard’s body and ride them to Hell.  Using this exorcism against Alistair probably only annoyed him, and Dean doesn’t want to think about what kind of punishment he would have inflicted on Cas’ brother.

Professional curiosity tempts him to flip to the beginning of the journal and read more, but he can see how anxiously Cas is watching him.  Instead of invading a dead man’s privacy, he closes the book and passes it back to Cas, careful to hold it away from the danger of the fire.

They all sit in thoughtful silence until Sam quietly announces that dinner is ready, and they still don’t speak while they eat.  When they finish, Sam gathers up their dishes and disappears into the darkness to wash them at the nearby water source.

Castiel is tempted to read more of the journal Sam had loaned him, but the strain of reading by firelight has left a mild ache behind his eyes.  And he has no doubt Dean will have them up and going again at the crack of dawn, so he really should get some rest.  He tucks both books away in his saddle bags, and pulls off his boots in preparation for sleeping.

He winces when he pulls the second one off.  He’s still breaking them in, and there are a few sore spots where his stockings didn’t quite protect him.

Dean’s voice comes deep and soft from where his own bedroll is laid out nearby.  “Blisters?”

Castiel sets his boot next to the other one and stretches his legs out, wiggling his toes.  He sighs at the sensation of freedom that small movement provides.  “I don’t believe so.”

“How’re your hands?”

The last of the blisters have popped, and they’re sore, but with the protection of his new gloves no more damage has occurred.  “Healing.”

A grunt brings Castiel’s eyes up and he watches Dean get up from his bedroll and rifle through Sam’s things until he comes up with a small jar.  Surprise has him jerking his feet out of the way as Dean strides over and settles himself on Castiel’s makeshift bed without invitation.  Dean holds out a hand, palm up.  “Let me see.”

Hesitantly, Castiel obeys the gruff command and puts his hand in Dean’s.  

Silently, Dean turns Castiel’s palm to the firelight.  As he examines the damage, Castiel examines the man.  He notices the wrinkle between Dean’s brows and how dimples appear in his cheeks when his lips purse as he concentrates on his task.  Castiel expects Dean to express disapproval again, since he’s taken every opportunity to do so in the past, but he only hums softly and opens the container he’d balanced on his knee.  He dips a finger in the contents and dabs it against the sores.

Castiel hisses at the contact as a sharp sting spreads from the area the creamy substance touches.  Dean glances up at him briefly to check that he’s alright but continues applying the salve.

After the space of a few seconds the burn fades, replaced by a spreading numbness.  Castiel’s shoulders slump, and he lets out a relieved breath.

“Yeah, this shit’s pretty good,” Dean says as he relinquishes Castiel’s hand and wiggles his fingers in a silent demand to see the other one.  “It’s great for sore muscles too, but we don’t carry much, so the rest of you will just have to suffer.”  He lifts his head up and one eyelid drops in a quick wink before he turns his attention back to his work.

Castiel is glad that Dean isn’t paying enough attention to see his blush.  There’s absolutely no way the gesture could have been a flirtation.  It’s just Castiel’s imagination overreacting, exactly as it had back in the mercantile when he’d thought Dean was about to kiss him.

Dean takes his time applying the salve.  Cas’ hands are already healing up nicely, and the cream probably isn’t necessary anymore, but it’s an excuse to touch the detective.  And there’s a growing part of him that feels guilty as hell for pushing Cas so hard for the last few days.  

He stubbornly clings to the excuse that it’s because he understands Cas’ crusade for vengeance.  There’s no need to look any closer at the tiny kernel of respect and admiration that had already germinated before they’d even reached Fort Buchanon.  And it has nothing at all to do with his attraction to the man, nothing whatsoever.  Dean’s never been the kind of man to let a pretty pair of eyes have that kind of impact on him.

But he still lets his eyes and touch linger on the strong, long fingered hands cradled in his own.  And he tries to ignore the return of fantasies about how they’d feel clenching in his hair, or pressing against his skin.  

When he hears Sam’s approaching footsteps, he finally relinquishes his hold on Castiel.  “They look okay,” he grunts as he reseals the jar of salve.  “Should be all good in another day or two.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

The softly spoken words make Dean’s eyes snap up to Castiel’s.  They almost glow in the glow of the dying fire, and briefly Dean feels like he’s staring into the eyes of an otherworldly creature.  One that uses its light to illuminate the darkest corners of Dean’s soul.

It’s a little bit terrifying, and oddly arousing.

When Sam clears his throat, it’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head.  Dean rises from Cas’ bedroll to make his way back to his own, careful to keep the front of his body angled away from Cas.  He avoids Sam’s eyes, not wanting to see whether his brother has any idea what’s going on in his head right now.

For his part, Sam seems to ignore the tension hovering over the camp.  He puts away the pans and dishes and settles down on his own bedroll with a softly spoken _good night_.  Dean knows he should do the same thing, but a restless energy tingles under his skin, making his fingers twitch and him more sensitive to every rock and twig hiding under the inadequate padding of his bedding.

Castiel does his best to find a comfortable position on the hard ground, but despite the weight of days worth of exhaustion, his eyes stay stubbornly open.  He stares up at the sky, aglow with more stars than he could ever hope to count.  

Motion catches his attention, and he turns his head on the pillow of his saddlebags.  He watches Dean sit up and rub both hands over his face.  After a moment, he roots around in his bags and comes up with a small metal rectangle that he lifts to his mouth.

A haunting melody drifts across the distance between them.  Castiel recognizes the lilting strains of Amazing Grace, and he blinks in surprise.  The harmonica is a simple enough instrument yet Dean wields it with skill, eyes closed and body rocking back and forth with the rhythm. 

Castiel also closes his eyes, letting the notes roll over him.  His muscles relax, and the ground, while still hard, no longer feels quite so uncomfortable.

The song fades into another hymn, and then eventually another, lulling Castiel although he’s still no closer to actual sleep.  When the music finally fades to a close, Castiel opens his eyes and finds Dean staring straight at him with an unreadable expression.  Castiel doesn’t look away, couldn’t even blink if he wanted to.  Dean’s gaze holds him like an invisible power.

When Dean finally looks away and shifts to lie down on his bedroll, Castiel lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  Now that he’s no longer pinned by the other man’s stare, he can finally identify what kept him tethered to Dean.

Attraction.  Lust.

He has no idea whether Dean is the type of man to return those feelings, and he very much doesn’t want to think about it.  He needs to focus on the hunt.  On finding Alistiar, and sending the demon back to Hell for good.

He sends up a prayer that his attraction to Dean won’t interfere with his mission.  Then he closes his eyes and wills sleep to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was doing really well at keeping a weekly pace on this fic, but I recently joined a new team at work and cranked up the difficulty of my job to 11, so I'm mentally burned out before my day is even over. Concentration is difficult, and it's definitely interfering with my creativity. Updates will probably continue to be slow for a little bit, but hopefully this will pass as I become comfortable with the new work stuff I'm doing and I'll get back on the wagon soon :)


	10. Chapter 10

“Hey Baby,” Dean murmurs, stroking over the mare’s storm dark muzzle.  She presses her face into his chest in a demand for even more affection.  “It’s gonna be another long day, but you’re up for it right?”

She wickers and thumps him in the chest hard enough to knock him back a step.  He chuckles and scratches around her ears.  “Yeah I know it’s been rough, but being tired is better than a bullet in the hide.”  Or an arrow, or a hatchet.  Or a hex from angry witches from local tribes.

Baby seems hale and ready, but Dean can see the other horses are tired.  The pace he’s been pushing isn’t good for them, which is why he hasn’t insisted on leaving yet this morning.  He’d let everyone sleep until the sun was above the horizon.  The reprieve is only temporary though.  The next few days they’ll be passing through highly dangerous territory and the quicker they can get through it, the better for everyone.

He gives Baby one last scratch and turns back to finish breaking camp.  “Where’s Cas?” he asks when he finds only his brother packing his things.  

“I pointed him in the direction of the spring to refill our water supply,” Sam answers without looking up.  “He said he wouldn’t be long.”

Dean lets out a put upon sigh.  “It’ll be just our luck if he falls in and drowns,” he mutters.

Sam flicks him an annoyed glance.  “It’s barely more than a puddle.  He’ll be fine.”

“Men die of stupider shit in the desert,” Dean counters.  And Cas isn’t exactly experienced in how to avoid most of the dangers out here.

Dean stares off in the direction of the spring and chews a thumbnail.  “Maybe I should go find him.”

Sam gives him a Look from under the shaggy fringe of his hair.  “It’s  been five minutes, Dean.”

Which is plenty of time for disaster to strike.  “I’m just going to check up on him.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, but over the crunch of his boots he hears his brother grumble “Lord save me from fools.”

The spring Sam had directed Castiel to isn’t far from camp, but it’s hidden well enough that he almost missed finding it.  There’s a shallow pool hidden near the bottom of a rocky outcrop, but the water runs clear enough for Castiel’s purposes.  He would very much like to shave his thickening beard, but even though Dean had let them sleep a little longer this morning, he doesn’t believe he’ll be allowed enough time to heat water for a proper grooming.  And he’s not about to risk razor burn by shaving with cold water.  That doesn’t mean he can’t wash away some of the filth coating his skin though.

After he fills the water flasks, he pulls off his shirt and folds it neatly, placing it on a higher rock where it won’t get wet, and sets his hat on top of it.  Then he squats down and scoops water into his hands.  It’s cool and refreshing and splashing it over his face and hair does more to wake him up than the strongest coffee Sam could brew.  Gasping, he repeats the motion until his hair drips into his eyes and his skin pebbles from the chill.

Because of the rocky outcrop and the surrounding saguaro cactus, Dean isn’t able to see Cas until he’s only a few feet away.  When he reaches the spring he finds Cas rising up from a crouch at the water’s edge.  His hair is nearly black and flattened with water, which drips down over more bare skin than he’d expected to see.  

Pink-gold light from the newly risen sun glints off water droplets, drawing Dean's gaze.  Cas' skin is pale where his clothing protects it, but is turning a warm tan around his neck and hands.  Dean sees beads wrapped around one of Cas' wrists, and curiosity briefly distracts him from the rest of the Cas' body, but his attention is pulled back to the broad expanse of skin when Cas pours more water over his head with cupped hands.  Rivulets pour down from his shoulders into the waistband of his pants, plastering sections of the cloth to his skin. 

Dean’s eyes follow the trail of water and he licks his suddenly parched lips.  He's gotten a glimpse of muscle now and then under Cas' clothing since they'd begun their journey, but having it bared to him now, like this, with the endless sky, and red rocks dotted with the green of stubborn vegetation makes Dean thirsty for more than the water clinging to Cas' body.  The wet denim clings to Cas like a second skin, revealing thick thighs, that Dean’s fingers itch to grip.

Shaking his head to clear the intrusive urges, he speaks into the silence of the small clearing.  “You almost done?  We’re ready to go.”

Even though he hadn’t made an effort to approach quietly, Cas apparently hadn’t noticed his presence.  He startles, spins on a heel, and retreats a few steps.  Just as recognition dawns in his eyes, it is overcome by sharp surprise when his heel catches a rock.  He stumbles, and his arms pinwheel, but it isn’t enough to keep his balance and he tips over backwards onto his ass.

Right on a patch of small cactus.

Dean cringes and peers down at Cas.  To his credit, he doesn’t make a noise despite how bad that must have hurt.  “You okay there, buckaroo?”

“Not really,” Castiel forces out through clenched teeth.  He holds his breath against the new onslaught of aches and pains and takes mental inventory.  Mostly he’s all right.  He appears to have landed on some vegetation, and it cushioned his landing.  But whatever it is seems to have pierced through his pants and straight into his skin in a few… delicate… places.

Heat rises up in his cheeks and he sneaks a glance at Dean.  The outlaw’s eyes are wide with shock and maybe a touch of worry.  But as soon as their gazes connect that worry is replaced with amusement, which bruises Castiel’s pride far more than the ground bruised his posterior.  

One of these days, Dean isn’t going to look at him like an incompetant nincompoop.  But that day will be a long time coming if he continues to witness Castiel’s moments of weakness.

Cas looks so much like a distressed bird that Dean can’t hold in a bark of laughter.  Burning blue eyes narrow on him, and if looks could kill, Dean would be dying a slow and agonizing death as his skin sloughs off under Cas’ glare.  He tries to school his features to hide his amusement, but he’s pretty sure he’s bungling it.

“Here, let me help,” he offers, and yeah there’s no hiding the amused wobble in his voice.  It’s probably going to ruin the small truce they’ve been building, but he deserves a pat on the back for not rolling on the ground laughing.

Castiel slowly transfers his glare from Dean’s poor attempt to hide his amusement to the calloused hand being offered.  He considers ignoring it, but the pain radiating from his posterior convinces him to swallow his pride.  It’s already as bruised as his nethers, so there’s no need to protect it further by being stubborn.

With a huff of frustration he slaps his palm against Dean’s.  With a strong grip and an even stronger pull, Dean jerks Castiel to his feet.  Hissing as more pain blossoms in his abused bottom, Castiel clamps his eyes shut and breathes through his nose until the sting fades.

When Cas goes ramrod straight and his fingers tighten around Dean’s to the point of making his joints creak, real concern edges out Dean’s amusement.  “Cas?”

“I am fine.” Cas’ words are clipped, his voice weak with discomfort.

He’s _not_ fine.  Dean’s eyes sweep over him, looking for additional injuries, then drop to the ground where Cas had fallen.  When he sees the crushed cactus he sucks a sympathetic breath through his teeth, mostly for Cas but also a little for the poor defenseless plant.  “Cas, you landed on a cactus.  I doubt you’re fine.”

Cas keeps his eyes firmly closed, and a small wrinkle appears between his brows.  “I will be in a moment.”  A muscle in his jaw jumps when he grinds his teeth.

Dean has the ridiculous urge to run his lips over the twitching muscle in an effort to soothe it.  He catches himself rocking forward slightly and halts the action.  He clears his throat and reaches up to adjust his hat instead of reaching out to touch the man standing before him.  

These stray urges are going to drive him crazy.

When he feels like he’s not going to fall apart, Castiel finally cracks his eyes open and lets his shoulders relax.  He finds Dean standing so close that he’s practically in the outlaw’s shadow, and he takes a step back, careful to plant his foot on solid ground so he doesn’t trip again.

A sudden sting at the movement makes his spine go rigid again and he winces.  Reaching behind himself, he finds a sharp object jutting out of the material of his pants.  He pinches it between his fingers and yanks it free, hissing again at the discomfort.

He holds it up between them, and they both stare at the cactus needle with wide eyes.

Dean rolls his lips between his teeth in a valiant effort to hold back more laughter.  The irritated glance Cas gives him almost makes him lose it again, but he perseveres, forcing a serious mask over his amusement.  “You should probably let me take a look at the damage.  Make sure you’re not walking around like a pin cushion in boots.”

Cas’ eyes snap to his, and he stares at Dean with unabashed horror.  “What? No!”

Holding back this much laughter can’t be good for him.  He’s probably going to pull a muscle, or pop a delicate organ.  “Come on, Cas,” he cajoles.  “If you’ve got needles stuck in your ass, you won’t be able to ride.”

At the mention of riding, Cas lets out a pained groan.  Dean wipes a hand over his mouth to keep his rebellious smile from breaking free.

Cas just stares at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish on land.  So Dean gives him an extra push.  “And we should make probably make sure it wasn’t a poisonous cactus.”

Castiel snaps his teeth together with an audible click.  Poisonous cactus?  Really?  He eyes Dean with building suspicion, trying to find clues that he’s lying.  But the outlaw looks completely earnest.  

Before Castiel can fully decide if there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes or not, Dean moves to a nearby rock and sits down.  He pats his thighs in invitation.  

Heart fluttering with panic that has nothing to do with the possibility of being poisoned, Castiel shakes his head and backs away.  “No, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Cas,” Dean says in a voice that makes Castiel’s skin pebble up more than the cool water did.  “You shouldn’t take that risk.”

Shaking his head, Castiel stands his ground.  “No, Dean.”

“What are you afraid of?” Dean asks, one eyebrow inched up toward his hairline.  

 _I could make a list,_ Castiel thinks.

But Dean goes on.  “If you’re worried about showing more skin, I’ll remind you that you’ve seen me buck-ass naked.  After this we’ll be even.”

Castiel isn’t sure there will ever be such a thing as _even_ between them.  And the reminder of Dean’s nudity the night he’d cornered the outlaw in Pamela’s room is less than reassuring.  Instead it inflames his imagination, prompting his mind to conjure up things he isn’t even sure are possible, much less sexually stimulating.  But his body thinks all of those ideas are good ones.

His mind does too, at least the less civilized parts of it do.

Deciding it is time for a retreat before Dean can see his thoughts on his face, Castiel shakes his head.  “No, thank you.  I’ll be all right, I--”

Dean’s hand shoots out at a speed that would be deadly if used to draw a gun.  He snags Castiel’s wrist before he can get out of range, and tugs.  A yelp escapes Castiel’s lips as he’s nearly toppled into Dean’s lap.  He manages to catch himself with a hand braced on Dean’s shoulder.

Their faces are close enough that Castiel can smell the coffee on Dean’s breath. 

The panicked thudding of his heart must surely be audible from such a small distance.

From up close Dean watches Cas’ eyes go dark, and his own body tingles with awareness at their proximity.  He squeezes Cas’ wrist, rubbing a thumb over his wildly fluttering pulse.

“Calm your horses, Cas.”  His voice sounds as reasonable and soothing as he’s going for, but it has dropped to the lower register he typically reserves for bedrooms and barn romps.  “I’m just going to make sure you’re in good shape to ride.”

Which _is_ true, but he absolutely has an ulterior motive.  Even if he wasn’t fully aware of it until now.  “Quit being a blushing virgin.  Just drop your drawers and let’s get this over with.”

Under other circumstances those words would be an invitation.  Hell, maybe they still are right now.  Dean isn’t sure.  

Castiel shouldn’t bristle over being called a virgin, since it’s true, but his fingers still curl with the urge to jam them into Dean’s nose with all his strength.  But there’s no way Dean could know about that, and punching him would only give him a reason to ask.  He should just play along so Dean will leave him the hell alone.

Baring himself to Dean is a Very Bad Idea.  Castiel’s body no longer cares about lingering aches and pains, or the sting where the needle pierced his skin.  Already it is reacting to Dean’s touch, and the deep timber of his voice, as if this is not a potential medical emergency.

Reminding himself that there could be poison making its way through his veins right now does nothing to make his heart slow its breakneck pace.  But if Dean is being truthful about the cactus, then Castil needs to get ahold of himself and his runaway imagination and just get the examination over with.

 _Lord help me,_ he thinks.

Dean watches the battle of indecision play out on Cas’ features.  He waits in anticipation to see which way the war will turn.  Finally Cas purses his lips and his nostrils flare, and he flicks a look upwards as if in a bid for heavenly support.  Then his hand goes to the fastening of his trousers.

Any thoughts of ending this farce go up in a puff of smoke when those long fingers work to bare more skin that Dean aches to touch.  When Cas begins to push the waistband down one handed, Dean licks his lips and tears his eyes away from the sight.  Every instinct is screaming for him to get a look at the goods, but he’s already pushing his slowly fraying sanity to the edge with this tease.

He gives Cas an encouraging smile when their eyes meet.  Cas responds with a scowl, and he’s red as a tomato, but he still drops his drawers and bends forward to lay himself over Dean’s lap.

Triumph sings through Dean as his eyes linger over the curves and planes of Cas’ back and thighs.  Cas could have protested, could have stayed standing and just turned around for Dean to check for injuries, but either it hadn’t occurred to him, or he decided the argument wasn’t worth the time.  

Or he knows exactly what kind of shenanigans Dean is trying to pull, and playing along with it is a calculated act.  A punishment.

It feels a bit like a punishment, because here he is with a wickedly sexy ass right in his face, and Dean isn’t even going to get laid.

He’s still going to take it as a win in their battle of wills.  And he’s going to enjoy the view while he can.  He rakes his gaze over arms and shoulders more muscled than he expected, and follows the sinuous bow of his spine down to the globes of his ass.

Muscles flex when Cas shifts to keep his balance, and Dean is nearly mesmerized by the sight.  He places a hand low on Cas’ back to hold him steady and a jolt of burning need shoots through him.

Castiel thinks he’d be grateful that Dean can’t see him blushing if it weren’t for the fact that hiding his face requires exposing his bare buttocks.  Blood rushes in his ears before racing in a straight path to his cock.  He takes deep steady breaths, trying to calm his raging libido and convince his body through sheer force of will that it is not affected by the position he’s put himself in.

Then Dean touches him.  Just a warm palm on the small of his back, but every thread of control Castiel has over his body snaps.

When Cas flinches under his touch, Dean reins in his growing lust.  He does actually want to make sure Cas isn’t too badly injured to ride.  Even if the cactus needle isn’t poisonous, it could fester if stuck in his skin.  

With a gentle touch, he pulls lightly at the skin of Cas’ bottom, checking for needles.  There are a few pinkening spots where he appears to have gotten a light poke, but the denim of his pants was enough to protect him from the worst of it.  Still though, he runs the pads of his fingers lightly over the flesh to make sure there aren’t any needles that he can’t see.

He doesn’t find any, and now that he knows Cas is all right, he _should_ let him up.  But with the warm flesh under his hands, he takes the opportunity to look his fill since he doubts he’ll ever have the chance again after this.  He digs his fingers in gently, just enough to dimple the skin, and Cas makes a soft sound that could be protest or encouragement.  Dean goes completely still, but when Cas’ head falls forward between his shoulders he takes the submissive pose as permission to continue.

Using both hands now, he cups each pale cheek and squeezes gently, spreading them apart to reveal the tender skin between them.  Cas makes another soft sound in his throat and his hips twitch.  Biting his lip to stifle his own urge to moan, Dean slides his fingers closer to Cas’ warm center.

Castiel’s body feels taught as a bowstring, even as it relaxes over Dean’s thighs.  The skin under Dean’s fingers feels like it’s burning, but all his pain is forgotten.  All his attention is focused on the points of skin to skin contact.

Each gentle push and pull sends sparks of awareness straight up Castiel’s spine and down the back of his thighs, making his toes curl inside his too tight boots.  And when Dean’s fingers slip between his cheeks, his legs spread of their own volition.

He doesn’t know what his body is begging for more of, and his mind shies away from the possibilities.  Things he’s only heard whispers of.  Things he barely understands, but somehow craves more than fresh clean water to wet his desert dry throat.

The forbidden thoughts refuse to be ignored, and his body reacts.  His cock feels heavy and neglected between his thighs.

“Dean…” he intends to demand he stop.  To remove his hands and let him up.  But his tongue and lips want to shape the words _please_ and _more_ and only keeping his silence will hold them back.

Cas’ rough voice slides over Dean’s senses like a physical touch.  He hears the unspoken plea in the way Cas says his name, and he wants nothing more than to give in to it.  To see how far Cas will let him take whatever this is.  He’s already uncomfortably hard, and there’s not much space between his aching cock and Cas’ body.  It would take barley a hitch of his hips to give the man an idea of how much this position is affecting Dean.

And he can tell Cas is experiencing the same affliction.  The Pinkerton’s breathing has quickened and his thighs spread in unspoken invitation.  Dean could so easily take what he wants.  What they both want.  Touching Cas until he comes against Dean’s thigh.

He imagines the rough sounds Cas would make as Dean explores his inner heat.  The breathy gasps and sighs.

Sam calling for them from the direction of camp is like a bucket of cold water being dumped over his head.  _What the hell is he doing?_

“We’ll be right there!” he calls back as he lets go of the firm flesh under his palms.  Unable to resist, he gives one cheek a light smack.  “C’mon, Cas.  Let’s get back.  We have a lot of ground to cover today.”

Castiel scrambles to push himself off Dean’s lap, hissing in surprise when his aching cock brushes against Dean’s thigh.  He quickly pulls his pants back up over his thighs to hide his nudity, but he still catches Dean’s gaze on the proof of his shameful arousal.

He spins to put his back to Dean, and squeezes his eyes shut.  Clamping his teeth down over his bottom lip until it stings does nothing to quell his erection, and neither does his burning chagrin over the situation.  He racks his brain for something to distract himself.

“Dean?” God, his voice sounds as wrecked as he feels.  He clears his throat and tries again, but the improvement is minimal.  “Was everything all right?  I haven’t been--” now true worry closes his throat, and he clears it again.  “It wasn’t poisonous was it?”

The uncertainty in Cas’ voice brings Dean back to his senses.  

Seeing proof of Cas’ arousal makes Dean want to reach out and pull him back down onto his lap.  He’s caught a few glances from the Pinkerton that made him suspect Cas might have an eye for men, but it was always covered quickly with haughty disdain.

Knowing that he’s right doesn’t give him any satisfaction.  Not when he’s afraid the only satisfaction will come from actually bedding the detective.  And that certainly can’t happen.  They don’t even _like_ each other, and while Dean’s not one to turn down a good hate fuck, he doubts the stick lodged in Cas’ ass can be pried loose enough for them to even give it a go.  So he should just forget all about it.

“No, Cas, you’re fine.”  He manages to sound light and unaffected.  Even though he’s far far from it.

Cas looks at Dean over his shoulder, probably attempting to hide his modestly although it’s too late.  “You’re sure?”

“Course I am,” he says, plastering on a smirk.  “Ain’t no such thing as a poisonous cactus.”

Castiel stares at Dean’s grin and wonders why he hasn’t shot Dean Winchester again.  The first time had certainly been satisfying.  A second round could only be better.  “You’re a right bastard, you know that?” he says mildly, even as he burns inside with embarrassment and rage and something else he refuses to put name to.

One green eye drops shut in a wicked wink.  “I’m pretty sure my folks were married, but I do understand the sentiment.”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Castiel grumbles.  He bends down and gathers his clothing, and the full water flasks.  “You detestable, insufferable, egotistical, outrageous…”

Dean is pretty sure everything Cas is grumbling is both true, and highly disparaging.  He chuckles when Cas spins on a boot heel and limps away, still mumbling insults.

When he’s alone, he buries his fingers in his hair and pulls until the roots ache.  The slight pain centers him, and he lets out a gust of air.  Dropping his head, Dean stares at the bulge still straining against the confines of his pants.

“Well shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite scene ever :D


	11. Chapter 11

“The Valley of the Blood Moon,” Sam announces as they stop to water the horses at the fork of a river they’d been following for most of the day.  They’re traveling steadily eastward, toward New Mexico Territory.

When he gestures to the cut canyon walls and the valley beyond, Castiel shades his eyes and gazes in the direction he’s pointing.  “Why is it called that?” 

Dean joins Castiel and Sam in the sparse shade of a tree at the water’s edge, and also looks out over the land.  A frown mars his expression.  “The Blood Moon is an old Indian Legend.”

“The lore says it appears when a great tragedy is about to take place,” Sam says.  “Many tribes believe it’s magic.”

Castiel casts Sam a considering look.  “Is it?”

Before meeting the Wincchesters he wouldn’t have thought to ask.  Magic belongs in myths and legends, not in the New Mexico desert.

Sam grins at him.  “It’s always best to assume the answer is yes.”

Returning his gaze to the valley tucked between walls of jagged red rock, Castiel searches for anything out of the ordinary.  The land is rugged, yet beautiful.  The river cuts a swath of sparkling blue and verdant green through the rusty land, and the cliffs stand over it all like sentinels trapped in stone.  It fills his chest with awe, inspired by God’s creation in its full glory, untainted by the presence of man.  At least to his eyes, so accustomed to a skyline created by the peaks and spires of buildings, and the sky darkened by coal smoke.  

The land looks pristine, with no sign of scars he’d expect to see in the wake of a great calamity.  “When did it happen?” he asks.

While Castiel was distracted by his thoughts, Dean had dismounted and doused his head in the river.  Now he shakes droplets of water from his hair, leaving it dark and spiked.  “A couple times in recent years,” he says, and Castiel struggles to focus on his words instead of the way his wet shirt clings to his shoulders.  “Once when the Indians were forced to travel to a reservation where many of them died along the way.  The last time was when Apache renegades followed the soldiers responsible into that canyon-” he gestures to the land stretching out ahead of them, “-and killed them all in revenge.”

“Revenge?” Castiel echoes.

“A lot of people, including women and children, died at those soldier’s hands,” Sam murmurs, subdued and almost sorrowful.  He slides down from his horse and approaches the river, hunkering his huge frame down so he can dip his fingers in the rippling water.

Castiel dismounts and unhooks his canteens.  When he joins the brothers at the river’s edge he meets Dean’s eyes.  “Was it truly so awful?”

Dean crouches down and fills one of his own canteens with fresh water and carefully screws the cap down tight.  “Not all monsters are of the supernatural kind,” he says.

“Do you mean the Indians, or the soldiers?” Castiel asks.  He has a feeling he knows the answer.

“The government isn’t just driving Indians off their ancestral lands and enforcing white men’s laws,” Dean says tightly.  “They’re literally destroying a people and their way of life.”

The bitterness in Dean’s voice surprises Castiel.  But he realizes quickly that it shouldn’t.  Before he met Dean, he’d thought the outlaw wouldn’t care about the plight of strangers.  They should be nothing more than targets, victims to someone with Dean’s reputation. However, Dean cares very deeply, risking his life to protect people from unknown horrors.  It follows logically that he would care about people regardless of nationality, race, religion, or any of the other things people use to put each other in categories.

“So the Indians chose to fight for their land,” Castiel concludes softly.

Dean shrugs, and at first Castiel thinks it is indifference, but when he speaks, his tone suggests something much more.  A sense of hopelessness.  “For a while.  But it’s hard to fight when there isn’t enough to eat.  They were driven off their hunting grounds and the land they farmed.  If a man can’t eat, he can’t fight.  If he can’t fight, he can’t be free.”

He stares at Dean in growing fascination.  Their conversation reveals something very personal, very private.  He wonders how many people ever see this side of Dean.  A man who yearns for freedom in justice in an unjust world.

“The relocation was brutal,” Sam says, when Dean falls silent.  “Over two hundred miles, in winter, with only as much food as they could carry.  Children and old folk weren’t strong enough for such a harsh trip.  More than half of those who started died along the way.”

Castiel swallows back bile.  So much life wasted.  

Sam continues sadly.  “It’s happened before and it’ll probably happen again in other places.  The government promises them land, then takes it away, and the Indians have every reason not to trust them.  The army calls the ones who don’t fall in line ‘renegades’, and there’s a bounty on them.”

Just as there is a bounty on Dean and Sam.  Castiel isn’t blind to the similarity.  “What happened to the renegades?” he asks.

Sam digs the toe of his boot into the sandy bank, making half-moon arcs.  “Some of them were hunted down and taken back.  Others killed.  Many are still out there.  Taking revenge where they can.”

“The battle of the Blood Moon,” Castiel surmises.

It’s Dean who answers.  “The renegades led the soldiers into that canyon and boxed them in.  The soldiers had superior numbers, and guns.  But the Apache had them trapped… and witches on their side.”

Even though the wind twisting through the valley has done little to affect the noon-day heat so far, it suddenly feels cold on Castiel’s skin.  “Witches?”

“They call them Shaman,” Sam says.  “Although most Shaman use their magic to heal or protect their people, there are some who turn to the darker magics when pushed too far.  Some of them have the ability to shapeshift, with dark power over death.  They hunted the soldiers in packs, and raised the corpses of their fallen to aid in the fight.”

“It was slaughter.” Dean straightens up from his crouch near the river and approaches Cas.  The Pinkerton looks like he wants to move out of Dean’s way, but his head comes up, blue gaze stubborn despite a flicker of unease.  Dean wonders if it’s from the history lesson, or something else.  

He’s done his best to avoid Dean since the moment they’d shared at the spring, going to Sam for his needs or to answer his questions.  Or he’s kept his nose buried in John’s journal to avoid conversation.  Even now Cas is mostly addressing himself to Sam, and purposely not looking at Dean whenever possible.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, unsure whether he means the story Sam has been weaving, or of Dean himself.

The blue darkens and a pink tongue flicks out against Cas’ lips.  It’s the only sign of weakness that he shows.  His expression firms into something that feeds the slow burning heat that’s been building inside Dean since he had Cas draped over his thighs.

“No,” Cas rasps, low and firm.

"You should be,” he warns. “Numbers and better weapons didn’t do those soldiers any good.”

“This one is different though, isn’t it?” Cas puts a hand on the handle of the colt strapped to his hip.

And that sets a spark to Dean’s temper.  The heat of arousal has nowhere else to go, so it fuels his anger instead.

He steps close, till they’re nose to nose.  “Have you seen the dead walking, Mr. Jameson?” he growls.  “They move like living creatures until they take too much damage to hold themselves upright.  But they’ll keep trying.  They’ll lose both arms and legs and use their chins to pull themselves toward you.  They bleed black, and their eyes are gray and dead.  And they want to make you one of them.”

Castiel swallows, but doesn’t back down.  He knows Dean is trying to prove some kind of point.  But he has one of his own to prove.  No matter how terrifying the monster, he will face it and fight until he can’t anymore.

“Have you ever seen a man pull on a coyote skin and change before your eyes?” Dean continues.  Then he scoffs.  “‘Course you haven’t.  Not many live to tell the tale.

And that-” he tips his head toward Castiel’s gun, “-has only six shots.  If you miss, if you’re outnumbered, you’re dead.”

Silence surrounds them as the stubborn Pinkerton gives Dean a considering stare, only interrupted by the soft whisper of water bubbling over rocks and the rhythmic chomping as the horses nibble the sparse grass growing along the bank.  He doesn’t know why he’s still pushing Cas around like a greenhorn.  Cas has proven he’s capable, and a quick learner.  Despite his early reluctance to take on this hunt, Dean believes that Cas gives them a higher chance of success, and not just because he has the colt.

But the fiery anger Cas is displaying right now is far preferable than the icy shoulder he’s been giving Dean since they left the spring the previous morning.

He’s missed _this._

Sam clears his throat, shattering the moment like glass under a hammer.

The noise snaps Castiel’s thoughts back to the present, and the reason he’s here.  Which is _not_ to indulge in Dean’s ribbing.  “Hadn’t we better get going?” he asks with sudden coolness.

The change is abrupt, like the chill of a wind that sometimes comes up unexpectedly on the desert.  It could make a man ache clean through to the bone.  With the words as well as the way Cas stands, the aloof distance Cas has been maintaining between them is firmly reestablished.

“I want to cover as many miles as possible,” Cas continues stiffly.  “After all, that’s why we are here.”

“Anything you say, Mr. Jameson,” Dean snaps, the change in Cas rubbing him raw just below the surface.  “We don’t want to lose any precious time getting ourselves killed now, do we?”

Castiel is immediately aware that he’s succeeded in bringing back the anger between them.  He heard it first in the hissing fury of Dean’s voice and then in his use of Castiel’s last name after he’d been stubbornly insisting on calling him “Cas”.

Without another word, Dean walks back to the horses.  He jerks the Appaloosa’s reigns hard, making the mare roll her eyes at the rough treatment.  Once he’s swung himself into the saddle and turned his mount about, he gestures across the river to the far bank.

“That’s where the renegades staked out the cavalry captain and slowly stripped away his skin,” he says sharply.  “They still haven’t caught most of them.”  Then he whirls the Appaloosa around and sets off at a steady pace along the river.

Castiel doesn’t know whether to believe him or not.  He’s probably still trying to scare him.  There’s no doubt in his mind that Dean would be more than pleased to turn around and forget this trip.

He looks to Sam who stands stoically near on the river’s bank.  At Castiel’s questioning glance, he nods.  “They still roam the land.  For them there is no life, their families are dead.  There’s only revenge.”

A frisson of fear tingles across Castiel’s skin, leaving him cold in the afternoon sun.  He reaches for the rosary wrapped around his wrist and fingers the wood beads and the stone cross.  He thumbs over the marks etched into the stone, but the symbol of his brother’s faith brings him no comfort.  “I see.”

Sam looks like he wants to say more, but decides not to.  He settles for a wry smile that seems to be an apology for his brother’s behavior, then he mounts his own horse and sets off after Dean, leaving Castiel to catch up on his own.

Castiel moves slowly to climb back into his own saddle, and keeps a moderate distance while he mulls over what he’s learned today.  He’d come too far, waited too long to turn back now.  And in some remote sense he feels a kinship to the Apaches of the Blood Moon.  He understands revenge.

But he keeps a wary eye on their surroundings.  Just in case.

When Sam’s mount comes up beside him, Dean remains silent, stewing over the argument he hadn’t intended to start.

“You should just bed him.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at his brother.  “Pardon?”

Sam keeps his eyes on the trail.  He doesn’t need a warning about the dangers.  “You should bed him and get it out of your system,” he says again.  “Put me out of my misery.”  He huffs a laugh.  “Probably Cas too.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean snaps.

Now Sam does look at him, his face scrunched into a put upon glare.  “Oh please.  You can’t deny that half the reason you’re being such an ass to him is because you want him.”

“Yes I _can,_ ” Dean counters.  “And who says I want him anyway?”

“Jesus, you are such an asshole,” Sam mutters.  Louder he says “you’re not exactly subtle.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue further, but Sam’s glare intensifies to the point where he worries he might actually get a bullet in the hide if he tries.  He snaps his teeth together and grinds them briefly.  It doesn’t soothe his temper at all.  But it gives him time to consider that his brother is probably right.  Damn him.

“I don’t even know if he’ll be interested,” he grumbles.  It’s a lie.  There’s no way Cas would have let him get away with what he did at the spring.  And after Cas had scrambled off his lap, Dean had caught a glimpse of just how affected he was by the encounter before he’d turned away.  

But he’s done his damned best to make the man hate him.  Even if Cas is attracted to Dean, that doesn’t mean he’ll want to roll in the hay with someone he despises.

The pinch of regret under his sternum over that realization just pisses him off more.  

It fizzles almost immediately and he sighs.  “Do you really think he’d want me after the way I’ve treated him?” he asks quietly.  

“Maybe not now,” Sam answers in the same subdued tone.  “But you could try being less of a jerk and see if he changes his mind.”

Dean wants to scoff and roll his eyes and tell Sam that there’s no such thing as miracles.  But he also doesn’t want to fight with Cas anymore.  Even if mending their relationship doesn’t lead to sex.  They are going to need to watch each other’s backs, and he’ll need Cas’ loyalty if he’s going to trust him.

He still rolls his eyes, but he also sighs in defeat.  “Alright.”

“Great!  You just let me know if I need to take an extra long walk during my watch before making a move, alright?”  How Sam manages to sound disgusted and smug at the same time is a mystery.

Dean cuts a glare at his brother.  “Keep your nose out of my personal affairs, Sammy.”  To avoid any further discussion he nudges Baby into a faster pace and leaving Sam in his dust.

* * *

By riding late into the night they had travelled almost eighty miles in the two days between Tucson and Fort Buchanan.  If Castiel’s aches and stiffness are any indication of distance, he’s convinced they have traveled eighty miles a day since leaving Fort Buchanan.

Of course he only has himself to blame for the numbing pace Dean set today.  By the time Dean settles on a place to camp, Castiel is about to fall out of the saddle.  So much for beginning to feel accustomed to the long hours of travel.

Still, he won’t give Dean the satisfaction of knowing the pace is killing him.  

_It will get better,_ he tells himself.  _It has to._

He slips to the ground beside his horse and groans softly when his muscles protest.  Giving his legs a moment to remember their original purpose, he looks around.  

They’re in a small flat area mostly devoid of vegetation.  The closest thing to a tree he can see is a tall skinny cactus and some gnarled bushes.  They’re far enough from the river that it’s out of sight, even though he can still hear its soft burble.  It’s only when Sam disappears down the embankment to collect water that he even knows where it is in the dark.

“Are we stopping here?” He winces as soon as the question is out of his mouth.  Apparently not only his legs have forgotten how to properly function.

Dean casts him a dubious look but, miracle of miracles, doesn’t mock him for asking the obvious.  “That’s right.”

“There aren’t any trees around.”  _Dammit!_  

This time Dean looks amused.  “You’re real observant,” he says as he works at loosening the fastenings of his mare’s saddle.  “Must be all that training as a Pinkerton agent.”

Ah, there’s the attitude Castiel was expecting.  But he bites back several scathing replies.  It’s his own exhaustion making him sound like a blithering idiot.  Dean is being rather amiable, all considered.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Castiel says, deciding that answering nature’s call will be more prudent than becoming embroiled in a verbal sparring match.

Dean tries to hold back his amusement at Cas as he wanders away.  “Don’t go far!” he calls.  “Holler if you need help!

Cas gives him a disgruntled look, and shuffles off into the dark.

“Smooth,” Sam says, returning with full canteens and an armful of driftwood from the bank.  “You’re really good at this.”

“Shut up, bitch,” Dean grumbles as he goes about settling Baby for the night.

Low scrub brush scratches at Castiel’s boots as he paces away from camp.  Walking is a relief for his abused back and legs, but the boots still pinch at his toes, ratcheting up his irritation with Dean.  It’s not the outlaw’s fault, he knows that, but his temper is frayed by his discomfort and Dean is a convenient target.  All the more reason to take a walk and try to clear his mind.

He hesitates as he moves further from camp, uncertain of the terrain in the dim illumination of the half moon floating just above the horizon.  But everything is flat, unlike the rolling hills they’d left behind the day before.  The only exceptions being the unexpected rock formations they passed occasionally, and the wide gully of the river at his back.

He walks a little further to ensure privacy before seeing to his needs, but once he’s taken care of them, he doesn’t return to camp immediately.  In the distance he hears faint noise--Dean and Sam talking, the snapping of wood being broken up for a fire, the lively snorts of Dean’s Appaloosa, which cares little for the company of the other horses.

Guilt for leaving his gelding still saddled while he walks off his temper needles him, but the distance was necessary so he wouldn’t start another fight with Dean.  He’s so very tired of the conflict already.

Sighing, he tilts his head back on his shoulders and takes in the growing blanket of stars above him.  It’s truly a magnificent sight, and despite his reasons for being there, he’s grateful for the opportunity to experience such a view.  For most of his life he’s paid very little attention to the sky, giving it little thought in his day to day activities.  And not even when he and Emmanuel snuck out at night to play in the gardens did he ever witness such majesty.

He wonders if Emmanuel ever looked up at the night sky like this after moving out west.  Did he find a firmer connection with God among the stars?

Thinking of his brother usually fills him with sharp pain, anger and sorrow winding tight around his heart, but now it feels muted.  He never had the same faith his twin did, but knowing what he does now, about creatures that had previously only existed for him on the pages of dusty old tomes in Aunt Naomi’s library, he feels the tiniest inklings of faith.

Fingering the rosary beads wrapped around his wrist, he whispers a prayer into the dark.  Not to God, or Jesus, or to any of the angels or saints.  But to the one soul he hopes exists beyond the veil.

“I miss you, Emmanuel.  I’d give anything to have you back.”  He remembers the entries in John’s journal about necromancers and deals with demons, and huffs a wry laugh.  “Well, almost anything.  But I can’t do that, so I’m going to avenge you.”

The thought of bringing justice to Emmanuel’s killers has given him purpose for years, but now it feels wrong.  He knows his brother wouldn’t approve, even if he believes Emmanuel would understand.  Without his brother alive and able to express that disapproval, he’s ignored that thought.  He can’t ignore it anymore.  But he knows what his brother would approve of.  “I’m going to stop him, Emmanuel,” he says into the night.  “I’ll send him back to Hell where he can’t destroy any more lives the way he’s destroyed ours, and countless others.”

He has no idea whether his promise makes it to the intended recipient.  But something shifts inside him, and a previously unnoticed weight lifts. 

There’s a sudden burst of golden light as the fire is lit, and he glances over his shoulder.  The flames flicker and sputter as they reach spiraling tendrils up through scrub brush and then lap tentatively at denser wood.  A faint hiss reaches Castiel’s ears as heat meets wetness, the wood having obviously come from down by the river.

Castiel stands outside the circle of light cast by the fire, and sudden wariness about the empty darkness around him sends him striding back to camp.

Dean looks up as Cas enters camp.  He moves stiffly, favoring his left side, as he moves to unsaddle his horse and get it settled down for the evening.  The tiny wounds he’d suffered from landing ass first on that cactus are probably deeply uncomfortable from spending a few days in the saddle, but Cas hadn’t complained once.  

_Stubborn bastard_ , he thinks, almost fondly.

“Are you all right?” he asks when Cas finally limps over to join them at the fire.

Cas looks at him coolly.  “Yes, of course.”

Okay, so apparently he’s still miffed at Dean.

_Stubborn bastard,_ he thinks again, less fondly.

As usual, Sam provides dinner, but with the added treat of a rabbit he’d killed down by the river.  Castiel finds it a welcome change from hardtack and tortillas.  He pays close attention as Sam gives him a lesson on how to clean and prepare the animal for cooking.

It makes him slightly queasy if he thinks too hard about it, so he doesn’t.  Most of his experience with his food has been with the kitchen at Aunt Naomi’s house in Philadelphia where meat, fresh produce, milk, and butter were delivered daily.  They certainly never went out and killed the food they ate.

And his years in Denver were no different.  It was modern, and somewhat cosmopolitan despite being an overgrown cattletown.  He ate at restaurants, or the meals prepared by Ms. Hannah at the boardinghouse where he’d lived.  His travels for various cases had taken him to cities, frontier towns, and railroad camps, but he’d always been able to find a good meal prepared in a kitchen or cook tent.  He’d never provided food for himself, and therefore had never given much thought to it until traveling with the Winchesters.  

While he does depend on them as guides through the desert, he’s unwilling to be a burden to them.  He’s grateful for anything Sam is willing to teach him about hunting and cooking.

The rabbit is slightly chewy, but tastes wonderful.  There are tortillas again, but tonight there are also cooked beans to roll inside them.  It all tastes wonderful to Castiel, whose empty stomach has been a source of at least half his discomfort.

Dean sits across the fire from Sam and Cas and watches them silently.  It’s not a surprise to him that they get along so well, nor is it a mystery why Cas seems to prefer Sam’s company to Dean’s.  He really has been a dick to the poor guy.  He’s not so sure that Sam’s suggestion to knock boots with the guy is a great idea, but he can certainly make a more concerted effort to uphold some kind of a truce with him.  

After dinner he lights a cigarette, takes several short puffs, then passes it to his brother.  Sam inhales deeply, nodding his appreciation before handing it back.  When Dean notices Cas’ curious glances he holds it out to him in silent offer.

Cas eyes it warily for a moment before accepting it.  He lifts it to his lips, holding it awkwardly, and the tip brightens when he inhales.  Almost immediately he coughs, nearly dropping the cigarette.  He thrusts it back at Dean while he sputters and tries to clear his throat.

Dean chuckles, a mistake which earns him a piercing glare.  

“I’m going to turn in,” Cas says, voice rougher than usual after his coughing fit.

From the corner of his eye, Dean catches Sam shaking his head as if to scold Dean for his poor people skills.  It takes an actual effort to keep his mouth shut and not to tell his brother to fuck off.  He merely rolls his eyes and adds more damp wood to the fire.  It hisses before it catches, spreading more warmth throughout the camp.  The days may be blazing hot, but the nights on the desert can be biting cold.

Sam sighs, grabs his rifle and stands.  “I’ll take first watch.”

“There’s a ring around the moon,” Dean warns.

“I noticed,” Sam counters before he noiselessly disappears beyond the circle of light surrounding their small camp.

There have been a few times that Sam or Dean have taken a shift guarding camp at night, but this is the first time Castiel is aware exactly what they’re watching for.  “Apaches?” he asks.

Dean is glaring in the direction Sam wandered away in, and he blinks and looks mildly confused when Castiel speaks.  Then his expression becomes deliberately blank and he shakes his head, avoiding Castiel’s eyes.  “Uh yeah, maybe.”

It’s obvious that he isn’t going to discuss it further because he spreads his blankets beside the fire and lies down. He wraps one blanket around his shoulders, adjusts the brim of his hat low over his eyes, and settles his gun across his chest.  “You better get some sleep too,” he suggests.  “It’s going to get real miserable when it starts to rain.”

Rain?  Castiel looks up at the brilliant night sky.  The stars still twinkle overhead and the moon is just starting its night journey on the far horizon.  He casts a glance at the other man, unconvinced of his ability to predict the weather.

Still, he takes Dean’s suggestion and tries to make himself comfortable.  But no matter which way he twists or turns, his body throbs.  There’s a dull ache in his backside that makes him silently curse the nearby cactus and all its relatives for their existence.  

He turns over onto his stomach and groans when a sharp stone cuts into his side.  He digs it out from under the blanket and tosses it aside.

“Will you quit thrashing around?” Dean grumbles.

Castiel rolls over again, but the pain doesn’t ease no matter which position he gets into.  After several more minutes of misery he finally gives up and gathers his blankets.  He looks down at Dean.  He’s still in the same position, his eyes shielded by his hat, looking very comfortable.

_How pleasant for him_ , Castiel thinks as he picks up his poncho and bags, tucking them under his arm.  He’ll just sleep somewhere else so that he doesn’t bother Dean.  Silently, he hopes a dozen scorpions find their way inside Dean’s boots.

“I hope he swells up and bursts,” he mumbles, recalling the horrible story about the dangers of being stung, and heads for the edge of the river.

“That’s not the best place to sleep.”

Castiel stops and slowly turns around.  He hadn’t made a sound, and he’d been certain Dean was already asleep.  How did he do that?  How did he hear things Castiel couldn’t hear?  In this case, Castiel’s escape from camp.

“Why not?” he asks, because he knows whether he wants to hear it or not, Dean will tell him.

“If any of those renegades come around they’ll need water,” comes the mumbled reply.

“I’ll rely on Sam to warn me should they arrive.”  He turns and starts back toward the river.

“Then of course, there are other things.”

Teeth clenched, Castiel stops again.  “What other things?”

“Wild animals.  The ones that come out at night are especially nasty.  And of course there is that storm coming.”

A glance at the sky doesn’t reveal the presence of any clouds.  “There isn’t going to be any storm,” Castiel grinds out, too tired to hide his anger.  “The sky is completely clear.  Good night, Mr. Winchester.”  With that he turns and without another word stalks off toward the river.  He vaguely hear’s Dean’s parting comment.

“You’ll be back.”

_Don’t bet on it!_ Castiel fumes as he lays out his blankets in a niche under the high, dry embankment.  He’s still within sight of the camp, but far enough away from Dean that they shouldn’t disturb each other’s sleep.

Sometime during that long, miserable night it begins to rain.

Castiel curses himself for not being better prepared, the weather for being uncooperative, and Dean for being right.  The world answers her with a loud spattering on the hard, dry earth.  He snuggles deeper into his niche, pulling the blankets and the woolen poncho tightly around him.  Morning can’t come quickly enough.

Dean isn’t certain whether he hears it first or feels it, a distant rumbling that seems to seep up through the ground beneath him and churn through the cold air above him.  Having lived on instinct for so long, he is immediately on his feet and shedding the oilcloth slicker he’d wrapped around himself when the rain first began.

It’s a typical desert storm.  Coming on quick, with a force that drenches anything unprotected.  Like Mother Nature is trying to make up for the desert’s lack of water in one fell swoop.  The driving rain gathers in small rivers that run through the low spots surrounding the encampment.

He’s experienced such storms before, and he and Sam chose this location because the slight rise would protect them when the rains came.  A cave or outcropping of rocks would have been preferable, but they’re rare in this part of the territory.

In the gathering gloom he vaguely makes out the forms of the horses.  They’re huddled together, heads bowed against the deluge.  Across what’s left of the drowned fire, Sam dozes in a sitting position.  His slicker forms a tent over his bowed head and shoulders.  He must have returned to camp just before the rain began.  It’s pointless to stay out in a storm like this.  No one is going to attack them in a downpour, human, wild animal, or worse.

He finds Cas’ saddle, but his blankets, saddlebags, and poncho are gone.  The damned fool hadn’t returned to camp.

Anger at Cas’ stupidity hits him first.  He’d warned Cas not to go down to the river.  Then the unexpected, sharp tang of fear backs up into his throat.  

The indistinct rumbling he’d first sensed has grown to a dull roar.  Sam hears it too, stirring from his dry cocoon.

“The river,” Sam says with wide eyed certainty.

Dean nods.  “I hear it too.”

Sam twists, gaze bouncing around the darkest corners of the camp.  “Where’s Cas?”

Dean breaks into a run towards the embankment, cursing.  “The damn river!”

The night sky had gone from moonlit black to gray as torrents of rain explode against the dry ground, blending everything into a silvery curtain making it impossible to see anything clearly.  He shouts Cas’ name over and over as he reaches the top of the embankment.

The first thing Castiel becomes aware of is the loud hissing in his ears.  The next thing is that in spite of the overhanging protection of the niche and the tightly wrapped poncho and slicker, he’s soaking wet.

He understands why when he comes fully awake and realizes the intensity of the sudden storm.  What is surprising is that it isn’t the rain that had soaked through his blankets, but the rim of the water lapping around his legs and hips.

The river had swollen beyond its shallow gully.  In little more than a few hours, maybe less, it had risen, reaching all the way to where he’d laid out his bedroll.

He pulls the dragging weight of the blankets, but he’s already partially submerged and the water tugs them from his grasp.  It’s then that he becomes fully aware of the strength of the current.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, swallowing down instinctual fear.  Sitting up, he makes a desperate grab for his saddlebags.  The slick leather slips through his fingers, and he scrambles to his knees, oblivious to the water rising steadily around him, and makes another attempt, this time just barely successful.  

From the corner of his eye he sees the small carpetbag that carries the Winchesters’ legal paperwork bob precariously as it’s lifted by the water.  He lunges for it, and is able to grab hold of the coarse fabric.  When he turns back to his blankets he realizes with sickening dread that they’ve already been sucked away by the rising swell.

His clothing is plastered to his skin, and his boots are gone, washed away by the current swirling up above his knees now.  He wants to curse, but he doesn’t have the breath or the time.  He has to get farther up the embankment or be washed away just like his boots.

Castiel thinks he hears someone shouting, but can’t be certain, not with the persistent spattering of the rain and the ominous hissing of the rising water.  He stubbornly clings to his saddlebags and the carpetbag, refusing to let either go.

Mud shifts under his feet, making his balance unstable.  When he sees a tangle of roots protruding from the eroded river bank he lunges for them.  The first one he grasps snaps, and he grabs another, a thickly gnarled root.  But it’s slippery and now he’s up to his chest in the muddy river.  The precarious lifeline holds, and he slowly pulls himself up the embankment, digging his toes into the mud.

“Cas!”

The call comes from somewhere along the crest of the riverbank above him.  Or perhaps it is only his imagination.

As he claws for a handhold he realizes just how much the water had risen.  The niche where he’d made his bed earlier is three or four feet under the embankment.  The shriveled river had been at least another dozen feet or so.  The rain has transformed it from a slow-dying trickle to a raging river.

“Cas!”

He hears it again, this time closer.  Straining to see through the pouring rain, he vaguely makes out a moving shape above him.  “Here!” he cries, spitting out muddy water.   _Please, dear god, let it be Dean and not my imagination,_ he thinks desperately as the strength seeps out of his cold body.

He’s submerged now, the current pulling him down every time he tries to inch his way up.  And he’s constantly buffeted by floating debris that cuts and scratches against his bare feet and ankles.  

“Castiel!” 

This time it’s more distinct, and only a few feet above him.  Tilting his face up into the battering rainfall he barely makes out the shape of a tall, wide-shouldered man above him.  “Dean!”

“Give me your hand!”  Dean shouts something else, but it’s lost to the deafening roar building behind Castiel.

His muscles and bones ache, and his palm stings where it’s scraped raw by the root anchoring him in place, but still he holds on.  Finally he sees the dark shape of a long arm and hand extended above him.

Castiel’s holds tightly to the tangle of roots with one hand, the saddlebags and carpetbag with the other.  The amnesty papers are too valuable, and the colt tucked into one of the saddlebags is irreplaceable.  He can’t lose them, but if he lets go of the root to take Dean’s hand, he’ll be swept away before Dean can grab him.

Dean shouts into the storm.  “Dammit, Cas! Take my hand!”

Making a quick decision born of desperation, Castiel uses the last of his strength to swing the saddlebags and carpetbag over his head as far up the embankment as he can.  Even through the driving rain he hears a string of curses.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Cas!?”

The last curse dies on the wind as the bags are jerked out of his fingers.  The water pulls at Castiel, sucking him down as he holds on with only one hand.  He opens his mouth to cry out, but the sound is immediately drowned out by water and mud.

Twisting and jerking, Castiel blindly fights to grab hold of the roots with his free hand.  But the water has risen even further, and he can barely keep his head above it.  

His lungs ache.  And he wonders vaguely what it feels like to drown.  Still clinging to the roots with only one hand, he struggles to lift his face above the water.  Everything about him is cold--the water, the brief blessed gasp of air, the mud oozing about his legs.

He’s slipping, the current dragging him down.  The flesh of his palm is torn by gnarled roots, and even his blood is cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gestures at the "historical inaccuracies" tag as a reminder* The lore in this chapter is a combination of Apache and Navajo, but mostly attributed to the Apache. The history of the events Sam shared with Castiel comes straight from the novel, and supposedly the author is a history buff, but I shaved out a few details that I couldn't confirm using Google. 
> 
> Man, it makes me deeply uncomfortable to use the term "Indians" in regards to Native Americans. But I still remember a time when it was normal. Aging and becoming more socially aware is such a weird experience sometimes.


	12. Chapter 12

Dean grabs for Cas, but their fingers slip apart almost immediately.  He lunges over the edge of the bank and makes another attempt just before the current can sweep Cas away.  This time he gets a firm grip around Cas’ wrist.  Weakly, Cas wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist in return.

“Hold on!” Dean shouts over the hiss and gurgle of the river.

He can hear it in the distance, the growing roar of water on the move.  A massive amount of it.  The fear that has kept him holding tight to Cas increases tenfold when he realizes they’ve only witnessed the first trickles of a flash flood.

Water, mud, and debris churn toward them, sweeping up anything and everything in its path.  And it’s going to take them with it if Dean can’t get Cas to higher ground _now._   He thrusts himself further over the bank’s edge and tries to grab Cas’ other hand, but he’s too far down, and he won’t let go of his death grip on the bundle of muddy roots.  There’s little time.  Dean has to go down the embankment to get Cas out.

For half a heartbeat he considers letting go.  But he discards the idea almost as soon as it forms, for reasons he doesn’t have time to spare additional thought to, and scrambles down the muddy embankment.  He’s immediately submerged up to his shoulders along with Cas, and the swirling current of the swollen river tears at their precarious hold.

Dean shields Cas’ from the bruising onslaught with his own body, and snakes an arm around Cas’ middle.  He grabs the same slippery bunch of roots that Cas has a death grip on and does his best to boost Cas up out of the water.  He shouts instructions but his voice is drowned out by the flood.  

He catches Cas’ wide eyes with his own, and the Pinkerton nods as if he understands.  With Dean’s support he’s able to get his feet under him so he can attempt to crawl out of the water.

They might have made it if they’d had a few more precious seconds.  But the roar of water and wind intensifies, and so does the current.  And then a wall of muddy debris slams into them.  The onslaught tears at them, yanking them from their tenuous hold.

Instead of wasting energy on fighting the current, Dean lets go of the root and concentrates on keeping hold of Cas.  Kicking his feet in an attempt to keep their heads above water he shouts “Swim!”

Castiel must be delirious.  There’s no way Dean can expect him to swim in such a powerful torrent.  Something pulls at him and it takes several heartbeats before he realizes that something is Dean. He has a tight grip around Castiel’s waist and actually seems to be guiding them in an angle toward the bank.

They bob in the water, sometimes getting sucked under until Castiel’s lungs scream with strain before surfacing again.  More than once Castiel feels Dean almost lose his grip as the water tries to separate them.  But every time, Dean is able to hang on, grabbing Castiel’s waist, his arm, or the back of his shirt.

Castiel gives up trying to see where they’re going and focuses on stroking his arms and kicking his legs and gasping for life-giving air whenever his face breaks through the river’s choppy surface.  He chokes on river water while being pummeled and bruised by fragments of wood and rock.  Whenever he weakens he feels Dean’s grip tighten, dragging him along just as surely as the river.  

Dean refuses to let go.  Even to save himself.

It would be so easy for him to just open his hand.  To claim his freedom after finding Castiel’s drowned body somewhere down river.

Dean’s hand tightens around Castiel’s wrist.  

A swirling eddy slams them into something hard and unyielding, knocking precious air from Castiel’s lungs.  When he feels Dean’s grip loosen he digs his own fingers into the outlaw’s skin, holding on with every ounce of stubbornness he has.  One more vicious surge of water, mud, and detritus hits them, but the solid object at Castiel’s back doesn’t budge.  

With the last of his strength, Castiel crawls up onto the embankment, dragging Dean along with him.  His arms and legs shake, but he crawls further out of the water with single-minded focus.  He coughs and chokes and brings up river water in between sucking in huge gulps of air.  

When the coughing subsides he wipes mud out of his lashes and looks around.  Rain still falls in solid sheets, but the thunderous pounding of the river has lessened to a dull roar.  His eyes land on Dean’s huddled shape several feet closer to the rushing water. 

“Dean!”  Castiel scrambles over to where Dean lies, still half submerged.  There’s a dark trickle at his temple that boosts Castiel’s fear.

Especially when Dean doesn’t move.  

Castiel flattens his palms over Dean’s chest, partially bared by his torn shirt, and feels for the rise and fall of his breathing.  When he doesn’t detect any movement, he leans down and puts his ear to Dean’s chest, but he’s unable to hear a beat over the pounding rhythm of the rain.  Panic hits Castiel and he seeks a pulse at Dean’s neck.  If there’s anything at all, it’s too faint for Castiel to detect.

“No!” he shouts into the storm.  “Don’t you dare be dead, Dean Winchester!”

Dean is strong.  Stronger than Castiel.  He’d held them both above water until they could crawl to shore.  

“Dean!” He slaps the outlaw in an attempt to rouse him, but there’s no response.  His hands run over Dean’s face, his chest, arms and hands.  Dean is cold, but no colder than Castiel.  Still there’s no telltale rise and fall of his chest.

Panic starts to overwhelm Castiel, and he looks around frantically as he tries to rein in his galloping thoughts.  How far had the river carried them?  Where is Sam?  Is he looking for them?  Does he even know they’re gone, or had he been caught in the flood as well?

Sucking in as much air as his stinging lungs can hold, Castiel shouts into the darkness.  “Sam!”

After several calls there’s still no response.  He’s on his own.

Staring down at Dean’s still form, Castiel grips his own hair and pulls, desperately hoping the sting will jolt him back into focus.  He’s such a fool!  Nothing in his experience has prepared him for this, and now Dean might be dead!

He’d been certain he hated Dean, and everything he stands for.  He’d cursed him, belittled him, and shot him.  He’d convinced himself that it meant nothing to him if Dean hanged, just as long as Castiel got what he wanted.

At the moment he only wants Dean to live.

The familiar anger that comes when Dean defies him bubbles up.  He arches over Dean and grabs the tattered remains of his shirt.  “Don’t you dare die on me, you son of a bitch,” he snarls into Dean’s slack face.

A vague memory from something he read surfaces.  If Dean won’t breathe on his own, Castiel can try to breathe for him.  

“God damn you,” he mutters.  “I won’t let you die.”

He rolls Dean onto his side while struggling to remember exactly how this is supposed to work.  With the rain still falling he can’t tell if the water on Dean’s lips is draining from his lungs, but it’ll have to be enough.  He rolls Dean back onto his back once more, but hesitates.

This isn’t how he fantasized about having Dean’s lips under his, in those secret moments before sleep or under the boiling heat of the noon-day sun.  But that’s not what this is.  This is life or death, not a lust fueled daydream.  

With that resolve in mind he places his lips over Dean’s and blows.  Immediately he senses a problem when air escapes Dean’s nose.  He pinces it shut, and tries again.  This time there’s a faint rise of Dean’s chest.  Heartened, Castiel does it again.

“Don’t die,” Castiel whispers before breathing for them both again.  “Please Dean,” he says several breaths later.

How much time has passed?  Seconds?  Minutes?  How long can a person go without breathing?

Rain continues to pour down on them.  The cold night air makes Castiel’s bones ache.  But he refuses to give up.

The next time Castiel puts his lips over Dean’s they move under his.  But when Castiel sits up and examines Dean for any changes, there is still no movement.

Thinking he’d been mistaken he leans down to resume the breathing steps.

This time when their lips touch, Dean’s part.  And before Castiel realizes what’s going on, Dean’s tongue slips between his lips.  

Castiel jerks back, and searches Dean’s face from only a few inches away.  He lies motionless, eyes closed.  Prodding at Dean’s shoulder he whispers “Dean?”

There’s no response.  Had he only imagined Dean’s tongue flicking against his?  A shiver that has nothing to do with the freezing wind and rain runs through him, and he scolds himself for his overactive imagination.  Now is not the time for such things!

With renewed determination, he closes the space between them and fits their mouths together.  But before he can exhale into Dean’s lungs, the pressure of Dean’s tongue is back.  This time it feels like a caress, hot, wet, and arousing.

Alarm makes Castiel bolt upright again.  This time his gaze is met with glittering green.

“I wouldn’t have guessed you were such a good kisser, Cas.”  Dean’s voice is rough, and he rolls to the side, coughing.

Castiel kneels in the mud, staring at Dean in dumbfounded confusion.  When Dean finally clears his throat, he turns a wicked grin in Castiel’s direction.  All of Castiel’s panic and terror coils around itself in his gut, coalescing into a nugget of white hot rage.

“You!” He chokes out.  His hands curl into fists and he rises up on his knees to loom over Dean.  “You aren’t drowned!”

Dean shrugs weakly, a devilish grin spreading across his handsome face as he props himself up on his elbows.  He peers up at Castiel through the veil of silvered rain.  “Apparently not.”

“You aren’t even _close_ to being drowned!”  Castiel lifts one fist, shaking it under Dean’s nose.

Dean lifts one shoulder in an impudent shrug.  “No, but I’ll be forever grateful for your…” he pauses, head tilted as he appears to search for the right words.  “Your skills at saving my life.”

“My Skills?!” Castiel explodes.  “You tricked me, you bastard!  I should have left you in the river!” He reaches down and fills his fist with mud and pebbles.  “I should drag you down there right now and finish what the river started!”

He flings the threat at the same time he flings the mud.  It strikes Dean square in the chest where the biggest rip leaves half his breast bare.

“You seemed to know what you were doing,” Dean says calmly, eyes still glimmering with fiendish delight.  The rain makes the blood oozing from his temple trickle down near his eye, somehow making him look even more rakish.  “I didn’t want to interrupt such determined efforts.”

“I thought you were dead!” Castiel snaps.

“Then why bother trying to save me?”

Castiel’s mouth opens and closes while he considers the question.  He knows what the answer should be, and he also knows the truth.  But he’ll drown himself in the river before he admits the truth to Dean.  “Because you’re no good to me dead,” he lies through clenched teeth.  “I need you alive.”

Dean rises up on his knees to bring himself eye to eye with Cas, ignoring the way his skull thrums warningly at the quick movement.  “That’s right!” He hurls back at Cas as strength and anger seep back into his battered body.   _“You need me!”_

He grabs Cas, one arm snaking around his waist to haul him closer, so they’re pressed chest to chest and thigh to thigh.  Cas jerks his head back and his hands flatten against Dean’s shoulders.  But he doesn’t put any more effort in pushing Dean away, only stares up at him with wide, dark eyes.  Their bodies mold together perfectly as the rain continues to slash at them.

“And you need a helluva lot more than that, Castiel,” Dean says, low and threatening, dragging out the last syllable in a lazy drawl.  The anger, frustration, and desire that have plagued him since he first laid eyes on the Pinkerton drive him to punish Cas, to prove something to him.

He wants to scream at CAs.  To call him every kind of fool.  To force him to understand what he’s going up against.  His fingers bit into Cas’ flesh.  There will be bruises, and the thought of leaving his mark on this surprisingly resilient man makes his mouth go dry despite the rain still running down his face.

One hand comes up to Cas’ throat, and Dean applies pressure with his thumb until Cas tilts his chin up.  Lightning flashes above them, illuminating everything in stark, blue-white light.

In that single flash Dean sees how much Cas has changed.  He’s no longer the refined gentleman, bred for parlors and soirees.  No longer the man raised with dignified Eastern manners and principles.  His clothing is torn and stained with mud, clinging nearly transparent to his body.

His dark hair is plastered over Cas’ forehead.  Raindrops bead on his face, clings to the tips of his dark lashes, and runs in tiny rivulets that drip from the tip of his nose and trickles from his defiant chin, grown dark with the makings of a beard.  The breath that had filled Dean so hot and sweet now comes out in harsh gasps.

Now Dean sees only a man, and the base desire roiling wild as the storm above them in his eyes.  Of all the countless emotions Cas has provoked in Dean, none are stronger in that moment than the desire searing through his nerve endings.     

He wants to shout at Cas, yet at the same time he wants to whisper his name.  He wants to strike him, and to pull him close and explore his body with soft touches.

He wants to throw Cas right back into that damned river and be rid of him… and he wants to push him to the ground and make him feel even an ounce of what Dean feels right now.

Everything he feels is pure instinct and has nothing to do with right or wrong, good or bad, or with anything else that had brought them here.  He knows only the primal desire that has underlit every one of their interactions since the moment they met.

If he chose, Dean could will it away.  But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets his hands explore.  The hand on Cas’ throat slides to the back of his neck and threads into his soaked hair, while the other traces the curve of his spine and over the swell of his buttock, kneading the flesh and rocking Cas’ hips against his.

“What are you doing?” Cas gasps.

Dean answers him by lowering his head.  He holds Cas tight, in case he tries to escape, but he doesn’t move a muscle, only follows Dean with his eyes.  

“What I’ve wanted to do for a long damn time,” Dean says just before he closes the last of the space between them, and kisses Cas with everything he has.

The kiss isn’t sweet or tender.  It’s an assault on Castiel’s senses.  His lips tingle, and a slow burn builds under his skin as Dean’s lips alternate between bruising force and sensual caress.  When Dean lifts his head, Castiel’s gasp for air comes out as a soft moan of loss, only to be answered by the sweet thrust of Dean’s tongue between his lips.  And God help him, he welcomes it.

He’d never felt anything like this.  Before, kisses had been brief, subdued.  A peck on the cheek at most, as he’d had the opportunity to explore more with someone he found attractive.  But there’s nothing brief or subdued about Dean Winchester.  Heat bleeds off of him and sinking into Castiel everywhere their bodies touch.  His mouth is hot, wet, and demanding.  He tastes of rain and something wild and untamed that Castiel yearns to know and experience.

He should push Dean away.  He should be angry, humiliated.  Instead, something fierce and primitive rises up in Castiel, and suddenly his hands are in Dean’s hair, gripping the soft strands and pulling him closer.  It’s not enough, not enough, even chest to chest and thigh to thigh, there is too much space between them.

Then Dean’s body shifts, his thigh nudging Castiel’s apart.  And there’s something hot and hard pressed into his hip.  Castiel whimpers into the heat of Dean’s mouth and presses his hips forward, grinding his own throbbing cock against him.  

He allows Dean to guide him, lowering him to the wet earth, and there’s no longer any thought of what they had just survived.  A new instinct has taken hold of them both.  Instinct born from the need to celebrate the fragility of life.

“Dean, I…” Castiel trails off as Dean’s lips blaze a burning path over the curve of his jaw, and he tilts his head back against the ground to give him better access to his throat.

“What, Cas?” Dean murmurs.

“I need…”  He’s distracted by Dean’s deft fingers separating the tattered edges of his shirt.  He gasps when warm lips close around one aching nipple.

“Tell me what you need,” Dean says in between nibbles and bruising suckles.  

Castiel arches in the dirt when Dean’s mouth moves to his other nipple.  “Dean!”

“Say it, Cas,” Dean demands.  He lifts his head and breathes hot over the sensitive nub, watching Castiel with predatory eyes.  “Say that you need me.”

“I…” Cas gasps when Dean flicks his tongue out.  “I need you!”

He’s rewarded with Dean’s teeth, biting hard enough to sting, but not enough to hurt.  It drags a cry from him, and his hips jerk up.  When his cock makes contact with Dean’s thigh, he moves again, seeking friction.  

Dean doesn’t make it easy for him, keeping his body still as Castiel strains for more.  “Tell me you want me, Cas,” he says as he begins to pepper kisses down Castiel’s stomach.

Castiel wants to deny it.  The word hangs from the tip of his tongue, a single syllable that would be so easy to voice.  But would he be denying his need for Dean, or the feelings he aroused within him?  Feelings he’s never allowed himself before, afraid of the consequences should they be unrequited.  

He’s never felt need such as this before, and it leaves him feeling shaken and undone.  Uncertain of anything but his response to Dean’s touch.

The dull ache growing inside him is almost more than he can bear alone.  “Dean, please…”

“Tell me what you want, Castiel.”

“You,” Castiel gasps.  “I want you!”

Dean surges over him, body shielding him from the rain.  His mouth covers Castiel’s in a kiss that seems to devour and possess him all at once.  He reaches between them, and Castiel feels Dean’s strong fingers work their way into his pants, and he nearly sobs with relief when strong fingers cup over his hard length.  

No one has ever touched him this way, this intimately.  He shouldn’t allow it.  He should shove Dean away, but it’s too late.  He aches with the need to be touched, and Dean seems all too eager to oblige.  Having never thought he’d ever have this experience, Castiel clings to Dean, encouraging him with his body.  Castiel strains against Dean, every muscle taut.  He has no control over the raw energy boiling inside him, and he doesn’t care anymore.  He wants.  He wants.  He _wants._

Dean’s voice is a low hum in his ear, saying his name over and over.  _Castiel_ when he kisses his lips.  _Castiel_ when his teeth sink into the tender flesh of his belly.  _Castiel_ hot and warning, just before Dean’s lips close over the head of his cock.

All sense of reason is washed away by sensation.  He’s branded by Dean’s mouth, scalded by every brush of Dean’s fingers against bare skin. Of their own accord, his hips begin to rock, pushing his cock deeper between Dean’s lips, fucking himself against Dean’s tongue.

He barely notices the rain on his skin as Dean bares more of it, stripping him down to nothing both physically and metaphorically.  Flashes of lightning in the turbulent sky reveal Dean as he discards his own clothing.  And then Dean is above him again, sliding his hips between Castiel’s thighs and lining their cocks together.

“Castiel, god…” Dean buries his face against Cas’ throat and revels in the solid body writing beneath him.  Hands, uncallused but not soft, need Dean’s shoulders, his back, the globes of his ass.  He moves under their silent command, rolling his hips against Castiel’s.

He’d known countless lovers in his life; young women, older men, pretty ladies, and handsome young fellows.  Lonely cowboys, and forward widows.  But none of them bedeviled Dean the way Castiel has these last few days.  

He’d entered Dean’s life when it was about to end.  The offer he’d made was a devil’s bargain--and he should know, better than most.  Trapped under Dean, he’s a scorching pillar of flame, searing Dean with unfettered lust.  

Dean knows the dangers of playing with fire.  He’d learned them long ago.  But like a moth, he’s drawn to Cas’ light with no regard to how badly he might burn.

This desire rides him like a demon.  But there’s a need that lies deep inside him, undefined, frightening in the quiet moments when he’s alone, hidden away when he isn’t.  

Now, with Cas, that deeper need surfaces, overriding everything but this one.  To lose himself in the oblivion of Cas’ passion.  To maybe purge himself of the devils always hiding just below his skin, and perhaps ease some of the pain of loneliness that he’s carried with him for so long.

“Castiel,” he whispers again, before joining their lips together in a deep kiss.  He suckles the tongue that tentatively flicks against his, nips at Cas plump lips, tastes the rain on his skin, all while rocking their bodies together in a timeless rhythm.  An ageless dance that will bring them both closer and closer to the flame burning so brightly between them.

When Castiel’s fingers dig deeper and stronger into his skin and his movements become erratic, Dean reaches between them and fists both of their cocks.  Trapped together, they each chase their pleasure, until they find it in each other.

Dean gives his everything to Cas, in that moment.  Passion, heat, each building higher until they consume each other in a blast of mind-numbing pleasure.

As the rain courses down over their bodies, Dean Winchester and Castiel Jameson surrender to the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's that for shower smut? ;D


	13. Chapter 13

The rain stops as suddenly as it started.  The clouds depart as if swept away be a cosmic housewife wielding a sky sized broom.  The half moon hangs bright overhead, giving Dean enough light to search out shelter.

He doesn’t know where they are in relation to camp, but neither of them have the energy to go looking for it.  Cas is already half asleep when Dean finds a rocky outcropping big enough for two grown men to squeeze into.  There is no protest when Dean  pulls Cas tightly into his arms, even though he has an excuse prepared about sharing body heat.  But Cas only nuzzles his face into Dean’s neck and wraps his arms around Dean’s body as if he’s afraid he’ll try to escape in the night, and then promptly begins to snore.

The soft buzzing makes Dean smile.  Any other time he’d be irritated, but right now all signs of life from the Pinkerton are reassuring.  Even if the noise does aggravate Dean’s headache.  

When he gingerly touches the lump on his forehead, his fingers come away tacky with blood.  But the cut seems to have already stopped bleeding.

He wants to blame his head injury for what happened between them, but despite his extraordinary skill at lying, he’s unable to do so in the quiet of his own mind.  He tries to convince himself it was just an explosion of rage and frustration, built up over days, but somewhere in the flood all the feelings of resentment and mistrust were washed away by the swollen river.

He doesn’t have a clue as to where that leaves them.  But right now Cas is warm and solid in his arms, and Dean isn’t inclined to examine why he just wants to hold him close and run his fingers through Cas’ damp hair.

Despite his exhaustion, Dean doesn’t sleep.  The questions revolving through his head keep him awake until the eastern horizon begins to lighten and the stars fade.  Cas doesn’t stir when Dean sleeps out of their tiny shelter to gather firewood.  Without Dean’s body heat Cas curls into himself and shivers in the bitter morning chill. 

Covering Cas with the tattered remains of his shirt does little, but Dean still tucks it around Cas’ shoulders with gentle hands.  He brushes hair back from Cas’ brow and whispers a promise that he won’t be gone long.  Cas murmurs something unintelligible, but it’s enough that Dean takes it as an acknowledgement.  By the time he returns with damp wood and kindling taken from an animal burrow, Cas still hasn’t moved.  Much.  He’s pulled his legs up to his chest and his bare toes curl in the chilled air.

Building a fire with damp matches would be impossible, but the ones in Dean’s pockets are spelled to stay dry.  A trick Sam learned from a witch who has been just helpful enough that they haven’t killed her yet.  When the flames catch he makes a mental note to thank Rowena the next time their paths cross.

While the heat builds he stares into the hissing, spitting flames.  His mind wanders to another fire and he feels the phantom weight of an infant in his arms, and the echo of his mother’s screams haunt him.  And his father’s orders shouted above the roar of the spreading fire.

_Take your brother outside, Dean!  Go!_

He sits mesmerized as the memories creep over him.  Unlike most childhood memories, these ones have never faded, always repeating as crisp and clear as the actual events in his mind.

Shaking his head, he tries to focus on better memories.  The soft gold light as it reflected off his mother’s yellow hair, and the sound of her singing hymns while she moved about the kitchen.  The way her fingers felt in his hair when she ruffled it playfully and told him to behave so the angels watching over him could take a little break.

He remembers his father’s smile, and his laugh booming through the cabin.  The way he’d lifted Dean so high, and they put their heads together to whisper their excitement over the new baby in Mary’s arms.

Dean’s arms had been too small to give that same kind of care to little Sammy, but he’d tried.  Oh how he’d tried.

It hadn’t been enough.

Newer, bloodier memories slide over the old ones.  Sammy with blood dripping over his chin, eyes black, power radiating like shadows all around him.

Even after four months spent with Alistair, nothing the demon forced on him was as terrifying as seeing his little brother, his reason for everything, becoming a demon himself.

The piece of wood Dean holds between his hands snaps in two with a loud crack.  His hands shake with impotent fury and lingering fear.  He flings the pieces into the fire.

_His fault._

Looking for a distraction from the painful memories, Dean searches out Cas.  But seeing him causes the dull ache of old guilt tear open into something fresh and new.

Dean has never taken what isn’t enthusiastically offered, but with growing self-loathing he realizes that what he’d taken last night was not offered up freely.  He could blame his behavior on a lot of things: the way Cas got under his skin by arguing with him, the stubborn way he questions Dean at every turn, or the fact that he shot Dean.  But no matter how he looks at it, he knows he’d been angry enough to lash out at Cas.  To hurt him.  And in the intensity of the storm he’d done so.

He holds his hands over the searing heat of the fire and drops his chin to his chest.  He’d wanted to take Sam’s advice and ease off Cas, to lessen the anger and bitterness between them.  But he’d fucked up again.  Sam is right.  He’s really bad at this.

When Castiel opens his eyes, he finds Dean crouched by a fire.  It highlights the hollows and valleys of every muscle, and Castiel traces the bare skin with his eyes, until it disappears into the waistband of Dean’s trousers.  The flickering firelight and the pinkening light of dawn make him look ethereal, an otherworldly warrior.

If Castiel hadn’t already awoken hard, being confronted with a half-naked Dean would certainly be arousing enough to get him there.  His cock throbs with interest as Castiel drinks in the vision before him.

Part of him can’t believe what he allowed Dean to do in the storm.  But the more honest part of him admits that he’s not surprised at his own acquiescence.  It had been unexpected--Castiel had been sure the tension between them being something more than antagonistic was a figment of his imagination--but he’d be more surprised at himself if he’d somehow worked up the willpower to push Dean away.

Long suppressed curiosity has Castiel scouring his brain for excuses to repeat the act.  He deliberately avoids thinking of the way Dean held him afterwards.  The warmth of his skin and the steady beat of his heart against Castiel’s chest.  And the throb of yearning in his chest whenever his thoughts skirt close to the memory.   

He doesn’t want those things from Dean.  Sex is one thing; just because he’s chosen not to act on his body’s needs, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t _wanted_ to.  But emotional intimacy?  

A sharp pain goes through his chest at the thought of that kind of closeness.  It’s a spear, the blade forged from mourning his brother, and the shaft is carved from the guilt he feels at enjoying anyone else’s company.  

It’s the same weapon that destroyed the few friendships he’d developed before Emmanuel’s death, and has warded off new friendships since his loss.  Castiel hates to think of what such a weapon would do if turned on someone who offered more than friendship.

No, he doesn’t want that intimacy with Dean, even if that kind of closeness between men were allowed by polite society.

But the physical?  Now that he’s had a taste, he’s not so sure he can go back to celibacy.  

Since Dean doesn’t seem to have noticed he’s awake, Castiel spends a long moment drinking his fill of the man’s dishevelled appearance.  He doubts the opportunity will present itself again soon, if at all.

Emotions flit across Dean’s profile, and Castiel is sure that he would not be witness to such openness if Dean knew he were being observed.  But now consternation and sorrow alternately play across his features.

What past events have led Dean to keep himself so closed off?  Castiel has some idea, having experienced profound loss and anguish.  He aches for whatever Hell Dean must have suffered as well.

Dean makes a small, sad noise and rubs a hand over his eyes.  He takes a shuddering breath and then another before dropping his hand and resuming his staring match with the dancing flames.  The momentary flash of vulnerability comes as a shock to Castiel, and he’s struck once again at the outlaw’s unknown depths.  Castiel is beginning to believe that a lifetime would not be enough to explore them, much less the bare months he intends to spend in Dean’s company.

He must make a sound or movement to alert Dean that he is no longer sleeping, because the handsome profile hardens to the more familiar mask of indifference.  Castiel immediately misses the softer version he’d been secret witness to.

When Dean looks over his shoulder, Castiel barely holds back a flinch.  His green eyes are colder than the breeze creeping past the circle of heat radiating from the fire.  

With no reason to pretend sleep anymore, Castiel rises slowly into a sitting position.  He catalogues a slew of new bruises and aches that he’d accumulated overnight.

At least the lingering pain in his bottom from the cactus incident pales in comparison.

When he sits up, he realizes that the extra cloth wrapped around him is Dean’s shirt.  It’s hardly an effective blanket, the cloth too thin and torn in several places from getting dragged through the flooded river along with the man wearing it, but Dean gave up what little warmth he could glean from the tattered remains to protect Castiel from the morning chill.  

Such kindness carries its own warmth.

He joins Dean, saying nothing as he kneels by the fire.  Dean accepts his shirt back silently and drapes it over a nearby rock, apparently satisfied with the fire’s heat to drive away the cold.  Or he’s aware that the tattered cloth would do little to cover him anyway.  

Feeling oddly bold, Castiel turns his full attention to Dean, unconcerned as to whether he’s caught staring.  As if ignoring Dean were a possibility.  Castiel could be blind, and he would still be acutely, intimately, fully aware of Dean.

Dean radiates power and strength while clothed.  Without them--as Castiel learned that night at Pamela’s--he’s dangerous in ways Castiel had discovered last night.

Other than a soft rounding of his belly, Dean is lean and hard.  His skin is peppered with scars, including the vivid pink one forming where Castiel shot him.  And above his heart, the curious pendant tattoo that Castiel had caught a glimpse of in Pamela’s bedroom but had been too focused on disallowing Dean from escaping to dwell on.  

Now, Castiel knows the texture of that skin under his fingers.  Knows how soft and supple it is despite being part of a body hardened by rough living.  His eyes drop to Dean’s hands.  They’re rough, callussed, a visual sign of a life spent with weapons often in hand.  But they were gentle against Castiel’s flesh.

Except for the perfect moments when Castiel didn’t want them to be.

Heat flares under his skin at the memories of where those hands had explored last night.  He feels branded.  Marked. 

And ridiculous for letting his imagination wander so much.  But it’s too late.  There is an ache building low in his belly, and he shifts, willing his body to stop responding to his wayward thoughts.

He smooths his shirt tails over his thighs for modesty, but gives up the futile attempt and spreads his cold fingers toward the fire’s inviting warmth.  If Dean notices the condition of Castiel’s body, he gives no indication and continues to stare into the fire.

Castiel immediately feels silly.  Dean would have already seen everything there is to be seen when Castiel was asleep.  And he’s recently had his hands on the most intimate areas of Castiel’s body.  

“About last night.”  Dean’s voice is gruff and trails off uncertainty.  He doesn’t look at Castiel, focusing on jabbing the coals with another piece of wood, but the downward pull of his lips is still visible.  “I’m sorry,” he finally murmurs.  

He sounds unexpectedly sincere, and there is true regret in his eyes when they flick up briefly, as if to gauge Castiel’s reaction.  His gaze skitters away again immediately, back to the fire.

Castiel thinks maybe he should be angry over Dean’s apology.  Offended at the very least.  Most definitely mortified over his own actions, if Dean feels that it’s something that deserves an apology.  Instead all he feels is sinking disappointment.

“Why are you apologizing?” he asks carefully, his voice hoarse from the water’s abuse as well as very weak control over his surging emotions.

Dean huffs what might be a laugh if it weren’t brimming with bitterness.  “Is the list of my sins really so long?”

Castiel can see the tension straining Dean’s bare shoulders.  The question sounds rhetorical on the surface, but Dean cares about Castiel’s answer.  Deeply.

“On the contrary.”  Tipping his head down until Dean is finally forced to meet his eyes, Castiel speaks with solemn honesty.  “There is no list at all.”

Dean only holds his gaze for a moment.  His shoulders hunch in an uncomfortable shrug and he turns away.  “Yeah, right.”

“Dean.”  Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder.  The skin is cold, but the flesh underneath is solid and warms quickly under Castiel’s palm.  “What happened was unexpected, but not…” He swallows nervously, unsure whether it’s wise to give voice to these thoughts.  “It was not unwanted,” he admits.  “And for my first experience, I found it very enjoyable.”

The admission brings Dean’s head up.  Any comfort he might have found that his actions were welcomed is burned away.  “That was your first time with a man?”

He’d suspected.  But having it confirmed somehow makes his guilt dig in deeper.

A lovely pink flush washes over Cas’ cheeks and his lashes dip bashfully.  “My first time with anyone,” he rasps quietly.

Dean’s jaw sags.  “You’ve never even been with a woman?”

Cas shakes his head.

“So you were a virgin?”  It’s a stupid question.  He knows it’s a stupid question.  But Dean just can’t wrap his head around this new information.  He surges to his feet and paces away from the fire, running fingers through his hair as the knowledge of what he’d done really sinks in.

“Yes.” Despite his fiery blush, Castiel speaks with deliberate coolness.  “I hope you weren’t too disappointed.” 

As soon as he says it, Castiel bites his tongue and curses himself.  He sounds hurt and disappointed, and those are feelings he does not want to share with Dean.  He takes pride in his ability to stay calm and unaffected while under pressure, but he’s not handling this conversation very well.  

He doesn’t know why Dean is upset with his inexperience, but it upsets him deeply.

Dean stares at Cas’ bowed head and feels like a good for nothing scoundrel for making him doubt himself.  “No, Cas,” he says as he lowers himself down to crouch next to him.  “I’m definitely not disappointed in you.”

Cas peeks up at him, curiously and oddly vulnerable.

Dean wants to touch him, so he does.  He puts a hand over Cas’ where it rests fisted on his thigh.  He does his best to ignore the urge to run his palm over that thigh instead.  To lay Cas out and show him just how much he enjoyed what they did by repeating the act.  “I’m just surprised,” he says.  “And a little regretful that your first time was in the mud instead of on a proper bed.”

Relief, and something that might be affection, fills Castiel.  He very carefully doesn’t examine the latter.  He smiles slightly.  “It certainly didn’t seem to affect my enjoyment of the act.  Maybe you’ve ruined me for beds.”

He’s rewarded when Dean’s eyes go wide and then his head tilts back on a delighted guffaw.  It unbalances him and he falls onto his bottom on the damp earth.  And Castiel is helpless not to join in.

Their laughter clashes together and fills the cool morning air, rising up to the steadily brightening sky.  Every time it mellows into chuckles, their eyes meet and they set each other off again.  

By the time they gain control of themselves, Castiel’s sides are in stitches and his cheeks ache.  He watches fondly as Dean rights himself, settling on his knees by the fire.

“So how is it that you’ve never been tumbled before?” Dean asks.  He grabs a twig and chews at the tip.  “You’re handsome enough to have the ladies falling all over you, and at your age--”

Cas cuts him a sharp look.  “What about my age?”

Dean holds up a palm.  “I’m just saying, you’re what, twenty-five?”

“Actually, I’m twenty-seven.”

“Plenty old enough then,” Dean says.  

Cas shrugs and gives his answer to the fire.  “The opportunity has never presented itself.”

“Horseshit.”  Dean isn’t buying it.  Cas is well spoken, dresses like he has money, and is sinfully handsome.  It’s downright surprising that some sweet young debutante hasn’t snagged him for a husband yet, much less the scores of lonely women who would only want him to warm their sheets.  Cas isn’t the kind of man that women would turn their noses up at, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he turned the heads of quite a few men as well.

And he doesn’t believe that Cas hasn’t at least received offers.  If they’d met under different circumstances, Dean would have propositioned him almost immediately.  Risking a broken nose for his forwardness would have been worth it for the opportunity to spend a few pleasurable hours naked with him.

“I beg your pardon,” Cas says primly.

Dean winks.  “You don’t have to beg anything from me, Cas.”  The eyeroll he gets fills him with gleeful pride.  When they’re not fighting, Cas is pretty fun to tease.

He’s always fun to tease, because Dean is kind of a shit.  But Dean also really likes Cas’ smile.  It’s not something he’s seen much since they met, and he’s discovering that he’d much prefer to see it more often.

“I think you’re a liar,” Dean continues.

Cas blinks at him, and his expression darkens.  “Of all the--”

“Come on!” Dean cuts in.  “You’re handsome, and enticing as hell.  Talented in ways I’m only just beginning to appreciate, smart… but still a liar.  You’ll never convince me that you haven’t been pursued.  And brothels exist, man.”

The deep blush is back, and Cas scowls at him adorably.  “My preferences pose a risk in certain social circles, should they be discovered.”

“Ah,” Dean hums his understanding.  “You only have eyes for the fellas.”

Castiel doesn’t want to say it out loud.  He’s already revealed more to Dean than to anyone other than Emmanuel, and he’s kept the secret for so long that it feels unnatural to even think of it, much less have a frank discussion.  But Dean is the first man he knows that shares his partiality toward other men, and it’s not like the birds and insects will carry rumors.

He clears his throat and nods.  “Essentially, yes.”

Dean gives him a knowing nod.  “Makes sense.  Those kind of brothels are harder to find if you don’t know where to look.”

“And asking could lead to… complications.”

Dean chuckles.  “A fist in the nose, you mean.”

Castiel smiles.  “Indeed.” He sobers.  “You won’t… say anything will you?”

At first Dean wants to be offended by the question.  There's nothing wrong with enjoying the company of men!  But Dean's never had a lofty name or a respectable career to ruin.  And Cas doesn’t really have a reason to trust him, does he?  At least not before the storm.  Maybe things are different now that they’ve survived a brush with death together.  And keeping his silence is an easy enough thing to promise.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he promises.  Then he’s struck by a thought and adds “Sam too.  He might already suspect.”

Cas squints at him suspiciously.  “And why would he?”

“Because he’s a perceptive bastard and grew up with me.”

The squint clears and Cas gives an exaggerated nod of understanding.  “Yes, that makes sense.  Poor man.”

“Dick.” Dean punches Cas lightly in the shoulder and they share an amused look.

“Where do you think Sam is?” Castiel asks, suddenly worried about their missing companion.

“Still with the horses if he’s smart,” Dean says, although his worry is clear by the way his eyes scan the horizon.

“Should we look for him?”

“It’s better to let him look for us,” Dean says.  He tosses another damp stick on the fire.  It hisses in the heat and a cloud of thick smoke billows up.  “It’ll be easier for him on horseback, and he’ll see this as a signal.”  

He doesn’t mention the danger the smoke poses if someone other than Sam sees it.  One problem at a time.

Castiel accepts Dean’s reasoning and settles in to wait.  They sit in comfortable silence as the sun comes up.  Despite his worry about Sam, and the unknown fate of his saddle bags, and the problem of what he’ll do without boots, Castiel finds himself oddly content to sit quietly with Dean while the sun inches higher in the sky.

It has been a very long time since he’s spent time with someone who didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.  It reminds him of the peaceful evenings he used to spend with Emmanuel when they were young.

Thinking of his twin, he fingers the rosary still miraculously wrapped around his wrist.  He has no idea how he didn’t lose it in the flood.

“I didn’t take you for a Catholic,” Dean muses, his eyes on the beads.

“I’m not,” Castiel admits.  He lifts his wrist and twists the carved turquoise cross between his fingertips.  He hadn’t recognized the stone when he first saw it.  Only when his investigations brought him out West did he learn its name.  “And neither was Emmanuel; our Aunt Naomi raised us strictly protestant.  According to his journal it was a gift from someone he met on his journey to Arizona.”

Dean holds out a hand.  “May I see it?”

Castiel hesitates, uncomfortable with the idea of letting the rosary out of his grasp.  So he sets his wrist in Dean’s hand instead, and lets him examine it without actually passing it over.

It doesn’t seem to bother Dean though.  He simply holds Castiel’s wrist, gently turning it and lifting the dangling cross with a delicate touch.  

The rosary is a simple thing, made of carved wooden beads tied together with dark twine.  Only the cross is made from a valuable material.  There are symbols etched into some of the larger beads, and more shapes carved into the stone.  Some of them are sketched in Emmanuel’s journal, but there isn’t any information as to what they mean.  As far as Castiel knows, his brother had just doodled them out of boredom.

“These are protection sigils.” Dean’s head dips so he can get a closer look and he starts examining the individual beads.  “I don’t recognize all of these, but this one--” he rubs a thumb over a large bead that Castiel has always felt resembled a star, “--is used in a few warding spells.  Sam would probably know what the rest mean.  He has a lot of this stuff memorized.”

When Dean releases him, Castiel lifts his wrist and stares at the rosary from a few inches away.  “Why on earth would someone have given this to him?”

“It doesn’t say in his journal?”

Castiel shakes his head regretfully and lowers his hand.  He gently pinches each bead, feeling the carved lines with new understanding.  “Emmanuel may have been the scholar of the family, but he was not very organized with his writing, and never journaled before he left home for his mission.  There’s an entry saying that he started writing it so he’d remember thoughts he wanted to share with me in letters, but I think he probably forgot about it more often than not.  And most of the things he’d written are incomplete, meant only for himself.”

“Shame,” Dean says.  And he means it.  He can’t imagine losing Sam, but he’s certainly taken comfort in reading his father’s journal since John’s death.  If he were in Cas’ shoes, he would certainly cherish every thought written down, incomplete or not.

“Do you think the man who gave it to him was a Hunter?” Cas asks.

“Could be,” Dean admits.  “Lots of Hunters would rather keep the strongest charms and amulets for themselves, but those who can make their own often gift them to folks.”  He taps the flame-circled pentagram over his heart.  “Our Uncle Bobby gave us pendants with this symbol on it.  Protects from demon possession.”  

Cas reaches out and brushes his fingers over the inked skin, and Dean holds back a shiver at the touch.  “Why mark your skin with it?”

“Pendants can get lost.” Or torn away by a very determined demon.  Something Dean knows from experience.  He also knows that putting the sigil directly into his skin is not perfect protection.  A knife or a brand could easily destroy it.  

Something in the way Cas looks at him makes Dean think those possibilities have occurred to him as well.  He may be stupid for going after Alistair, but he’s still pretty smart.

“I should get one too, if we’re going after demons,” Cas says.

“Yeah you should,” Dean agrees.  “Next town we come to, we’ll get the supplies and one of us can ink your skin.”

Cas blinks at him.  “You know how to give tattoos?”

“Had reason to learn.” Dean lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and then grins.  “Sam’s got a lighter touch, but I’m a better artist.  Choose wisely.”

In addition to enjoying Cas’ smiles, Dean is learning that he very much lov- _likes_ the sound of his laughter.

“You do realize,” he says, leaning closer to Cas and eyeing the rosary beads again.  The one on the cross looks familiar, but eludes him.  “That even with all the protections carved into this thing, that it wasn’t enough to save your brother from Alistair.”

Cas nibbles at his bottom lip, the only sign that he’s unnerved by the warning.  “That’s not why I carry it with me.”

Dean softens at the admission.  “Yeah, I know.”

“You still think this is a suicide mission,” Castiel says after several moments of silence.  Dean is still sitting very close, so their shoulders brush.  

Dean only nods.

Castiel refrains from thanking him.  It seems ill-mannered to show appreciation when he forced Dean into this situation.  The fact that the Winchesters were already going to die was justification enough for his actions before, but he sees now how cruel he was to these men who didn’t deserve such treatment, much less the death sentence hanging over their heads.

Instead he changes the subject.  “Are you certain Sam will be able to find us?”

“He’s already here,” Dean informs him, looking past Castiel.

Castiel turns and finds Sam riding toward them, leading Castiel’s sorrel and Dean’s Appaloosa.  He sees his own saddle bags and his carpet bag hanging from the sorrel’s saddle, and relief nearly knocks him over.  They still have the Colt, and the amnesty papers.  Thank god, Sam found them.

“About time you showed up, Sammy” Dean says, rising to his feet.

Sam’s expression is solemn, and Castiel becomes aware that there is something very wrong.  Dean must realize it too, because he’s immediately alert.  “What is it?”

“Trouble not too far from here,” Sam says.  He glances at Castiel, and his eyes are lined with worry.  “It’s probably better if I show you.”

Wordlessly, Dean pulls on his shirt and mounts the Appaloosa.  Castiel mounts his own horse, wincing as he slips his bare feet into the stirrups.  But he doesn’t have time to regret Sam’s inability to find his boots.

They ride hard along the bank of the river.  Distantly Castiel notices that the roaring wall of water that had nearly drowned them last night has dwindled back down to a shallow stream since the rain had stopped.

In the distance he sees a faint curl of smoke rising over a hill.  At first he’s excited.  There must be a farm or ranch on the other side of the rise, even if the surrounding land doesn’t look suited to supporting livestock or crops.  But then he remembers Sam’s worry, and he’s almost afraid to see what they’ll find.

As they gain the crest of the hill, he looks down to where Sam has been leading them.  The smoke is more distinct now, and his eyes widen at the sight before him.

It isn’t a settlement.  It’s burned out wagons, carcasses of dead horses and mules.  And now that the hill isn’t blocking it, the stench of bloated and rotting bodies carries toward him on the wind.  

In the middle of the massacred encampment a lance is spiked into the hard ground.  It is decorated with stark white feathers that flutter in the wind, a startling contrast to the bloodied human bodies strewn across the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm proud of myself for posting chapter 13 on Friday the 13th, even tho it wasn't planned lol. Also happy Supernatural Day!


	14. Chapter 14

Castiel has seen death before.  First his parents, which he had accepted with a child’s innocence, and then many years later his brother, mutilated by his killers and further decayed by the time it took for Castiel to collect his body.  He’s encountered dead victims in his work as a detective, and in his hunt for Alistair has been directly responsible, and present, for the hanging of the gang members that were with the demon when he murdered Emmanuel.

He is in no way inured to death, although it no longer shocks him as it once did.  But he’s never seen death at such scale, and nothing so brutal since Emmanuel.

The bodies are scattered about, and it takes him a few horrified moments to count them because several are strewn in pieces.  And even the horses and mules had been slaughtered, their remains interspersed with the humans.  Flies swarm the bloodied and bloated remains of limbs and torsos of human and animal alike.

He swallows down bile and covers his nose and mouth against the stench of flesh decomposing under the desert sun.  While Dean and Sam speak quietly, a ringing fills Castiel’s ears and he finds himself grateful for his empty stomach so he doesn’t lose its contents in a moment of weakness.

Closing his eyes doesn’t protect him from the grisly scene, because its memory is painted across his eyelids.  He knows he’ll never forget the ghastly scene for as long as he lives.

“Cas?  You alright?” Sam asks, his tone kind but grim.

Castiel opens his eyes and looks at the gruesome remains for a long moment before turning his attention to the brothers.  Sam’s mouth is set in a hard line, but his eyes brim with concern.  Dean, on the other hand, stares back at Castiel with stony anger.

“Take a good look,” Dean says harshly.  “That is what’s waiting for us out there.  And this wasn’t even the work of demons, who can and do leave even worse destruction behind.  Do you understand?”

It’s his last out.  He can order they turn around right now, sign their amnesty papers, hand over the Colt to its rightful owners, and return to Denver with the hollow satisfaction that he brought most of Alistair’s gang to justice.  Or he can continue on, and neither brother will argue even though he knows they have a healthy fear of what’s waiting for them at the end of this hunt.

Castiel looks back at the massacre.  He’s not close enough to see any faces, but his mind supplies him with plenty.  The woman who’d given him food on the train to Tucson.  The little girl and the other passengers of the stage coach to Fort Buchanan.  Nameless shopkeepers and stableboys.  Boardinghouse matrons and fancy ladies who’ve tried to woo him for a few coins.  

His brother.

Both Winchesters.

He remembers Sam and Dean’s warnings that some of the worst monsters are sometimes human.  The feathered spear is certainly evidence that this horror was created by renegade Apaches, with nothing supernatural behind the attack.  But if demons are capable of worse than this, then Dean was right.  Castiel hadn’t really understood the dangers.

But he can’t just let Alistair go free.  And not just because he wants justice for his brother.  This mission has moved beyond Emmanuel’s death.  The world may be full of monsters, but Alistair is one that needs to be removed from the world, and with the Colt and the Winchesters’ help, that is a deed that Castiel should pursue.

“I understand.”

“So be it,” Dean says coldly.  Cas flinches, but he must know that the soft comraderie they’d found this morning by the fire could never survive.  “Come on, let’s get down there and look around.”

At first Dean thinks that Cas is going to object, but his lips tighten and he nods sharply.  He twists in his saddle to reach in his saddle bags and brings out the Colt.  After strapping the belt around his hips, he nudges his horse in the sides, urging it down the hill.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Sam says.

Dean cuts him a sharp look.  It’s been a while since Sam has had any visions, but his ‘feelings’ can still be as accurate as premonitions.  Sam pulls out a machete and meets Dean’s questioning look with a grim one of his own.  Then he starts down the hill after Cas.

Armed with his own machete, Dean follows.

Castiel’s horse doesn’t want to approach the wagons too closely, so he dismounts despite his bare feet.  As much as he dislikes the idea of wearing a dead man’s boots, he believes he might need to scavenge some.  There’s no way he can remain barefoot until they reach a settlement.

He’s careful with his footsteps on the rocky, uneven ground, and his slow pace means Sam catches up with him quickly, just as he reaches the first of the bodies.  From the clothing he sees on the ones he can see clearly, there don’t appear to be any women among the victims.  He’s not sure if he should be relieved, or worried that they’ve been carried off for worse treatment.

“They appear to be miners,” Sam says quietly, taking care not to let his voice carry.  “Although as far as the Apache are concerned, they’re nothing but trespassers.”

“Do you really believe this was their work,” Castiel asks.

“Monsters would have eaten the bodies, or at least drained them of blood.”  Sam gestures at the spear planted in the ground.  “And that was left as a warning.”

Shaking his head regretfully, Castiel straightens.  “Should we bury them?”

“The bodies are also a warning.” Sam stands next to him and scans the surrounding wagons.  “Burying them could bring the renegades down on our heads.”

“It seems wrong to leave them like this,” Castiel says, but he’s not arguing.  

“It’s a lot of work to bury bodies that will just be dug back up,” Sam counters solemnly.

Castiel shudders.  “Yes, I see your point.”

Sam gives him a sympathetic look, and Castiel wonders if he looks as shaken as he feels.  “Come on, we should look for supplies--” he gestures at Castiel’s bare feet “--then get out of here before they come back.”

Castiel sees Dean crawl into one of the wagons, and bites back an argument about invading the dead’s privacy.  He lost his boots, poncho, and hat in the flood, and it would be foolish to pass up serviceable replacements.  The middle of the desert is no place to be squeamish about such things.

“You think they will?” he asks.

Sam scans the horizon with sharp eyes.  “I think they might be watching.”

Castiel doesn’t ask how he knows.  It’s better to assume he’s right.  Especially since the hairs on the back of his own neck continue to tingle with a sense of wrongness.

Boots crunch behind him and he turns to find Dean approaching.  He tosses a wrapped bundle which Castiel catches awkwardly.  “Put those on,” he orders before turning his attention to Sam.  “We don’t have much time.”

Sam nods and heads for the nearest wagon, and Dean turns his attention to Cas.  “You ain’t gonna bitch about grave robbing, are you?”

Anger flashes over the Pinkerton’s face, and Dean braces for a fight.  But Cas only unwraps the bundled boots and examines them.  Dean is glad to have found a pair in the wagons that are untainted by blood.  Less likely to have a ghost follow them when they leave.

“They aren’t exactly in graves, are they?”

Dean’s prepared speech about hunting being a wageless job dies on his tongue.  Once more, Cas surprised him, and he’s beginning to wonder when that’ll stop happening.  “Yeah there’s that,” he says gruffly.

“Thank you for these.” Cas crouches down and pulls on the socks and boots.  They look too big, and the way he grimaces and stomps his feet confirms Dean’s suspicions, but he doesn’t complain.  

“Sam said we should look for supplies,” he asks with more acceptance than Dean expected.  “What should I look for?”

“Coins, and silver if you can find it,” Dean says, keeping his rising respect for the detective under tight control.  “And ammunition.  But don’t take anything that looks like it might be a personal belonging.  That’s how you end up with ghosts tagging along.”

Castiel nods and makes his way to one of the wagons.  He stops when Dean calls his name.

“Keep your weapon ready,” Dean warns.

Tightening his grip on the Colt, Castiel nods his understanding and begins the grisly task of scavenging from the dead.  As he climbs into the wagon he reflects on why he’s going along with this.  Money and weapons will be useless to these people, and he sees reason in taking it while leaving sentimental items behind.

He searches the wagon as thoroughly as he feels safe doing.  Sam’s warning sits heavily in his mind and he keeps looking over his shoulder, trying to find the source of the invisible weight of eyes on his shoulders.  

When he doesn’t find anything of value in the first wagon, the feeling follows him into the second.  But he’s distracted from it when he finds cartridges compatible with the Colt, and some that he believes will work with the rifle Dean keeps strapped to his saddle.  From what he’s read in John Winchester’s journal, he knows they’ll need to be blessed and spelled to work with the Colt’s magic, but they’ll still have their uses against anything non-supernatural.

He’s unable to carry them all with a weapon in hand, so he holsters the Colt, but he realizes his mistake as soon as he climbs out of the wagon and turns around, coming face to face with a man.  Castiel startles so hard he nearly drops his finds.  The man stares at him with clouded eyes, but says nothing.

His first instinct is to rush to the man’s aid.  To offer treatment for his wounds and an escort out of this place.  But the hair on his arms prickles, and Castiel’s instincts are screaming at him that something is very very wrong.

The man opens his mouth, but his moan emerges from a deep cut across his throat.  The force of air pushing through congealing blood makes it splatter outward, and Castiel flinches back, coming up against the barrier of the wagon.  

The movement seems to startle the man, and he lurches at Castiel, filthy fingers curved into claws and blood stained teeth bared in a snarl.  He moves too fast for Castiel to avoid completely, and they go down together in a tangle of limbs.  Castiel tries to call out, but fingers close around his throat, sealing off his air when they begin to tighten.  

Instinctively he scrabbles at the man’s hands, trying to pry them off his neck, but the creature ignores his efforts as if they were no more annoying than the flies clouding around him.

The creature is inhumanly strong and he’s losing the fight.  He should be afraid, but instead he’s angry that Dean will be proven right about Castiel’s uselessness in a hunt.

Dean hears the commotion across the circle of wagons, and he turns just in time to see Cas go down under the strange man.  Panic flashes through him.  “Cas!”

As if his shout cast a spell, the bodies on the ground between them twitch.  And then the ones that aren’t in pieces start to rise.

“Sammy!” Dean yells as he raises his machete and breaks into a run in Cas’ direction.  “Undead!”

He doesn’t know where his brother is, and instinct is screaming at him to _find Sam, protect Sammy_ , but Cas is in the most immediate danger and Sam can handle himself.

Before Dean reaches Cas, there’s a gunshot.  The corpse holding Cas down arches and a sickly yellow light flickers under its skin before it collapses on top of him.

Cas shoves the body away and Dean sees the Colt in his hand.  His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, and his eyes lock on Dean.  He lifts the gun, pointing the barrel right at Dean.

Skidding to a stop, Dean puts his hands up in the universal sign of surrender.  “Whoa, Cas!”

But it’s too late.  Cas pulls the trigger and Dean flinches, waiting for the searing pain of another bullet tearing into him from Cas’ gun.

It doesn’t come.  Instead there’s a thump behind him.  He twists around and finds a newly re-dead undead collapsed on the ground.  A perfect round hole in its forehead is proof of just how good Cas’ aim is.

He doesn’t have time to be relieved though, because more corpses are shuffling toward him.

“Dean, get down!”

He obeys the order, dropping to his belly in the dirt.  The Colt’s loud report cracks through the air three more times.  Each shot followed by a fleshy thud when Cas hits his target.  When Dean risks lifting his head, he finds Cas scrambling to his feet and closing the distance between them.

Castiel offers a helping hand and hauls Dean to his feet.  Once he’s assured that Dean is unscathed, his eyes dart around, taking stock.  More dead are rising, but the injuries inflicted on them in life are slowing them down.  

He doesn’t see Sam anywhere.  “Where’s your brother?”

Dean mutters a curse as he puts his back to Castiel’s so they can protect each other more easily.  “Sam!” he shouts.

“Here!”

They both follow the sound of Sam’s voice, and Castiel’s heart nearly stops when he sees Sam struggling against three undead.  He only has two rounds left so he raises the gun and aims to make it count.  The corpse clawing at Sam goes down in a heap, and so does the one right beside it, giving Sam enough room to decapitate the last one.  And then he dances out of reach of its blindly searching hands.

“Fuck, beheading is only going to slow them down,” Dean mutters.  “You’ll have to take out the rest, Cas.”

Castiel spins open the Colt’s chambers. Empty.  “Cover me,” he orders as he starts reloading it with bullets from his gun belt, while silently hoping he’ll have enough.  There are far more corpses rising than he’d seen in his initial body count.

Dean falls into a protective stance, wielding his machete with what would be deadly precision if his assailants weren’t already dead.  He still drops a couple before Cas starts shooting again.

Six shots and six bodies fall to the ground.  A pause to reload again and then more undead creatures spasm and the power animating them flickers out.  Dean doesn’t lower his weapon until all the shamblers are down.  He sticks close to Cas’ heels as he paces through the bodies and puts a bullet through hearts of the corpses that Dean and Sam beheaded, and the one that were too damaged to make it upright but were still trying their damndest to attack anyway.

When the last random body part stops wiggling, Sam and Dean exchange a look.  Dean can see that his brother is just as impressed with Cas as he’s feeling.

“You’re a damn fine shot with that thing,” Sam says as they meet in a small circle among the carnage.

Castiel presses his lips together in a grim smile.  “I’m accurate, but I’m no quickdraw.”

“You’re still a damn blessing in a fight.”  Sam claps him on the shoulder, and Castiel ducks his head to hide his flash of pride.

“We need to get out of here,” Dean says as he examines his bloodied blade.  “Those shots will travel far out here and we don’t want to be around if anyone comes to investigate.”

Heeding the truth of his warning, they quickly gather what supplies they’d already found.  Castiel sends up a silent prayer for their souls as they mount up and leave the massacred miners behind.

* * *

Dean leads them steadily eastward through the high, flat desert.  The land changes gradually as their horses climb shale covered hills and wind their way through small canyons.  They stop when the sun is high overhead to rest the horses, eating strips of jerky and stale biscuits in silence.

They all keep their weapons within easy reach, Sam with a loaded rifle over his thighs, Dean and Castiel with one hand near their pistols.  While they rest, they keep their eyes on the peaks around them.  They’re being watched, and all three of them can feel it, and even the horses are on higher alert.

The rest is brief, and they move on as soon as they water the horses and fill their canteens.  Sam takes point, leading them through a gap in the canyon wall ahead.

Castiel has trouble getting his toe in the stirrup to mount.  The boots Dean had found for him are too big, which he would have thought to be a relief after his own too tight boots that still hadn’t been broken in yet.  But his feet slide around in these, and they’re starting to rub new blisters into his heels.  It takes him a few tries to mount up, and when he’s finally astride his horse, he looks up to find Dean watching him from the back of his Appaloosa.

“Stay alert, Cas,” he says just loud enough to carry to Castiel’s ears.  “And keep your hand on your weapon.”

The extra caution sends a chill down Castiel’s spine despite the sweltering heat.  He keeps his voice pitched low as well.  “Do you think they’ll attack?”

Hard green eyes scan the trail behind them.  “Yeah, it’s just a matter of time.”

“Do you have any idea when?”

“Probably tonight.  And this isn’t a good place for it.  Too open, no shelter.”

“I see.” And Castiel does see.  The canyon is narrowing and the low scrub brush barely comes to the horses’ knees.  They’re easy targets here.

One side of Dean’s mouth ticks up.  “At least now I know you’ll be good in a fight with that thing.” He nods at the Colt strapped to Castiel’s hip, and his eyes take on an extra sparkle.  “When you’re not comin’ up on a man without his clothes on.”

The humor is probably inappropriate in these circumstances, but Castiel can’t resist giving as good as he gets.  “I don’t know, if we’re attacked by the Apache it might be better to be careful.  What if my aim is off and I shoot you instead?”

Dean’s smile widens.  “I’ll watch my back.  In the meantime, just don’t shoot your horse.”

Castiel watches him ride away, tall in the saddle, shoulders broad and straight, hat jerked low over his eyes.  A few days ago he’d probably want to shoot Dean for his arrogance, but now…

Well now isn’t a good time to think about the things he wants to do to Dean.  He urges his horse to follow Dean and sweeps his eyes along the mountain rim above them, watching for any movement that might reveal their invisible watchers.  The breeze lifts a hawk higher above them and Castiel is reminded of the feathered war lance impaled in the ground at the massacre site.  He shivers despite the afternoon heat beating down on him.

As they ride throughout the afternoon his skin crawls at the eerie sensation of being watched.  He almost wishes they would just attack already, but he knows Dean is likely right that they will wait until the cover of night.

He’s never been afraid of the dark, even when Emmanuel insisted there was a monster lurking under their childhood beds.  Castiel was always the one to crawl underneath and check, proving to his brother that there was nothing to fear.  

The irony that his brother was right about the existence of monsters doesn’t escape him.  And now Castiel knows that they stalk even in the daytime.  They lurk behind trees and rocks, waiting… waiting.

As they climb throughout the long afternoon the flat, rocky desert gives way sparsely vegetated mountains.  Shale crunches under the horses’ hooves instead of dirt, and instead of brush and tall saguaro cactus towering overhead, the land is dotted with occasional croppings of scrawny, twisted pines.

The sun beats down mercilessly, making Castiel almost miss the flood’s cold embrace.  But he knows that when the sun sinks behind the mountains, the night will leave him chilled through, especially at this higher elevation.

When they stop to make camp, the sky is turning gold as the sun sinks behind the horizon.  Castiel would have expected them to ride far into the night, to put as much distance as they can between them and their hidden followers, but when he looks around he can see that the area Dean has chosen is well protected by a circle of large boulders.

Dean instructs him not to hobble his horse.  Instead they leave the horses saddled and tethered to a scraggly pine.

“Sammy, take first watch,” Dean orders after they check the area for safety.  He rubs at his forehead, careful of the lump left from getting knocked around in the water.  His head aches enough, and there’s no reason to make it worse by poking at the bruise.

“I’ll take first watch, if that’s alright,” Cas says quietly.

Dean and Sam both swing around to look at him.  They’ve never asked him to take a shift guarding camp before.  Mostly because Dean’s relentless pace has kept the Pinkerton so exhausted that he usually falls asleep as soon as he’s out of the saddle.

Cas apparently understands their unspoken doubts.  “I won’t fall asleep while I feel their eyes on me,” he promises.  “I have excellent hearing, and I have actually done this before.”

The reminder of Cas’ job makes Dean snort.  “This is a little different than hiding in a lady’s closet, Cas.”

“I am aware,” Cas says wryly.  “But I can handle this, I assure you.”

The kicker is that Dean doesn’t doubt him like he would have a week ago.  Other than his own control issues, Dean doesn’t see a reason not to let Cas pull is weight if he’s capable.  He and Sam can certainly use the extra rest.  Plus his head has been killing him all day, and he really wants to close his eyes for a while, even if worry will probably keep him awake.  

When he glances at Sam, his brother shrugs, leaving the decision up to him.  

“All right, Cas, first watch.  I’ll relieve you at midnight.”

That’s it.  No instructions or warnings or vivid reminders what will happen to them if Castiel fails to stay alert.  He watches Dean stride back to the horses to retrieve his bedroll.  For his part, Sam just wishes Castiel a good night and starts laying out his own bedding in the niche under the boulders.

The show of trust from the brothers means a lot more to Castiel than it probably should.  But it implants the need in him to not let them down, and to prove himself worthy.

When did he come to respect the opinions of these outlaws so much?

At the edge of camp, Dean stands softly stroking the Appaloosa’s neck, talking quietly into the dark smokey ears that flick forward as if the mare is listening intently.  The words are unintelligible to Castiel, spoken in a wholly unfamiliar language.  It sounds almost lyrical to his untrained ears.

After pulling his bedroll from his saddle, Castiel drifts closer to listen.  “What language is that?”

Dean continues to stroke his fingers through Baby’s mane without looking at Cas.  “It’s the language of the Nez Percé indians.”

“Does she understand it?” Cas asks softly as if he’s afraid of breaking the silence of the evening.

“She was born and raised as a colt by their tribe.”

“And you talk to her.”

Dean turns his head and looks at Cas, searching for any sign of judgement most white folks show towards anything related to the “savages”.  But all he finds is curiosity in those wide blue eyes.

He shrugs.  “A lot of the time I prefer horses to most people I know.”

Cas had been looking at Baby with quiet admiration, but now his eyes snap to Dean’s.  “I suppose I fall into that category.” 

It’s spoken with good humor, but Dean finds he can’t let Cas’ thinking stand.  “Oh I’d say you’re at least equal,” he teases.  “Now.”

A smile spreads across Cas’ face and in the fading light of the dying day, Dean sees a blush creeping up into his cheeks.  “I’m glad I’ve improved in your estimation.”

Dean doesn’t apologize for being such an ass, even though he acknowledges that he probably should.  He doesn’t think his concern about whether Cas would have the strength and skill for the hunt was misplaced, but he’s glad to have been proven wrong.

“She does understand,” he says, going back to a safer topic than his growing respect for Cas.  “And she’s got very sensitive hearing.  She’ll warn you if she senses anyone or anything coming.”

Castiel steps closer to the Appaloosa.  When she catches his scent, her head jerks around and she considers him with wide, dark eyes.  Castiel feels like she’s judging his worth, and he finds himself hoping for her approval.  Knowing that he should be cautious, but calm so that she doesn’t catch any fear in his demeanor, he holds out a hand.  He doesn’t make contact though, letting her decide whether she wants it or not.

When she swings her muzzle up and tries to nip Castiel’s arm, he moves quickly, pushing her head away, firmly but gently.  She looks at him again with new curiosity.

Dean chuckles.  “She likes you.”

Castiel smiles.  “Is that why she tried to take a bite out of me?”

“If she really wanted to bite you, she would have.”  He tilts his head and looks at Castiel with almost the same expression of curiosity his horse had given him.  “You’re good with horses.”

Apparently his horse agrees because she nuzzles into Castiel’s hand when he holds it out again.  She huffs softly when he strokes her velvety muzzle.  “I like animals,” he says as he admires the beautiful creature in front of him.

“I wouldn’t think a gentleman from a fancy city like Denver would have a lot of experience with them.”

“I’m from Philadelphia, actually.” Cas chuckles at Dean’s surprise.  “Fancier than you thought, hm?  And yes, I also have experience with animals.  We were wealthy enough to keep horses for riding, and our aunt who raised us insisted we learn because it was ‘proper exercise for gentlemen’.”

A wistful smile spreads across Cas’ face, and it makes something squirm inside Dean’s chest.  It’s not exactly unpleasant, but it is unexpected.  And mildly worrying because they may have a truce now, but he doesn’t want to get too attached to the Pinkerton.

“Also, Emmanuel used to sneak home strays.  Aunt Naomi tried to get rid of most of them, but one scraggly kitten wormed his way into her heart.  Samandriel was the first, but she is quite the animal lover now.  They’re her little angels.”

The image of a stuffy Matron surrounded by mangy cats and dogs makes Dean grin.  “So, Philadelphia, huh?  Was it the big house full of cat fur that made you pack up and move out west?”

Cas’ smile dims.  “I never intended to stay there.  I planned to follow my brother West, to wherever he settled on his mission, but then…”

From what Cas had already shared of his past, Dean knows he’s referring to his brother’s death.  The sudden thickness of his voice and the way it catches in his throat speak of grief and profound loss.  The vulnerability exposed in Cas pulls at him, makes him want to reach out and touch him.  To make that connection with someone who understands loss the way Dean does.

And he finds himself speaking of things he tries never to think about.

“Our ma was killed when I was four,” he says softly, trying somehow to offer comfort by sharing his own pain.  “Pa had plans for a ranch, breeding horses and maybe raising a few head of cattle up in Wyoming.  But sometimes things don’t turn out the way they’re planned.  Not when there’s monsters out there lookin’ to tear things down before people can even finish building them up.  Pa went hunting the monster that killed her, and took us along.  He got his revenge eventually, but he died doing it.”

There’s so much sadness in his voice.  Castiel understands losing a loved one to a monster, but he can’t imagine what it must have been like to be pulled into the life of a wandering hunter so young.  To know the monsters were real, and to lose both parents to them.

Sensing his need to talk about it, Castiel asks “What kind of monster was it?”

Dean’s expression hardens into the sketched likeness on hundreds of wanted posters.  His voice is flat and emotionless when he speaks.  “Demon.  She’d made a deal with it,” he says.  “It killed her parents and my father when they were just barely engaged to be married, and told her it would bring Pa back if she made a deal.”

Castiel blinks.  “She… sold her soul?”

It seems unthinkable… but if a demon had offered him the same when he’d first lost Emmanuel…

“It didn’t want her soul.”

“Then what did it want?”  Castiel almost regrets the question when Dean’s expression bleakens further.  He wants to take it back, to tell Dean he doesn’t need to lance this wound if it’s so painful.

“It wanted Sammy.”  Dean’s voice is stark, emotionless despite the pain in his eyes.  “When her ten years were up, it snuck into his nursery.  My mom woke up and tried to protect him, and it killed her.  Burned her alive.  Pa tried to save her.  Put Sammy in my arms, told me to run.  He just barely made it out of the cabin before it all burned up, but she was still inside.”

“Dear god,” Castiel whispers.  He should stop Dean.  The pain of reliving this story is not worth sating Castiel’s curiosity.

But now that he’s started, Dean seems unable to stop.  It pours out of him on a wave of long-stored rage.

“Pa hunted that demon my whole life, and killed all the monsters he found along the way.  Took us with him everywhere, refusing to leave us with family that offered to take us in and keep us safe.  We thought he was too scared to leave us behind without proper protection, even though Aunt Ellen and Uncle Bobby were hunters too.”

He stares off, looking at nothing, probably only seeing painful memories.  “Pa taught me to hunt.  To kill.  And when we learned that the demon had infected Sammy with its blood to turn him into a soldier for an army it was raising up, Pa told me that someday I might have to kill him too.”

Dean only distantly hears Cas gasp in shock.  His father’s voice is still clear as if he stood at Dean’s side speaking the order into his ear.  _Watch out for your brother, Dean.  If he turns evil, you have to kill him, you hear me?  Promise me.”_

Dean broke that promise.  Again and again, even when Sam asked, begged him to do it.  Sammy has been his responsibility since he was barely more than a baby himself.  And he took it far more seriously than John probably meant for him to.

“Sam’s not a monster,” he says firmly, meeting Cas’ wide eyes with a hard stare.

Cas’ gaze softens.  “I know that.  He’s a good man.”

Dean believes that Cas means it.  Which is quite the change from his attitude when he’d pulled them off the gallows.  He wonders if Cas will still feel the same when he hears the rest of the story.

“When Alistair… took me,” Dean says, watching Cas’ reaction closely, “Sam worked with another demon to try and find me.” Cas’ eyes widen, but there’s no censure there, only curiosity.  “She fed him her blood, which gave him powers.  Visions, and the ability to move things without touching them.  And he could kill demons with his mind.  He saved me, but the blood was doing something to him.  Something bad.”

Castiel glances over his shoulder at the camp where Sam had rolled himself in a blanket and appears to be sleeping.  When he read all the reports on Samuel Winchester, he’d believed the man was an outlaw.  A thief and a murderer.  But he’s gotten to know the intelligent, soft spoken man.  He’s seen his good humor and has been the recipient of his kindness.  He knows those stories in the papers don’t tell the whole truth about Sam Winchester.  Hearing Dean’s tale, he wonders if anyone could ever know the whole truth.

And Dean certainly isn’t telling all of it.  Castiel caught his hesitation when he spoke of his time with Alistair.  He wants to know the truth of that story as well, but he senses a fragility in Dean as he speaks carefully around the traumas he and his brother experienced, and he’s afraid that if he prods at the gates of Dean’s tentative candor that they’ll be slammed closed rather than opening further.

He returns his attention to Dean and finds him eyeing Castiel with resigned wariness.  As if he expects a return to the initial hostility between them, when Castiel treated him as nothing but a low-life outlaw.  Guilt claws at Castiel’s stomach, and he wants to reassure Dean that learning what he has about them only increases their estimation in his eyes.

“Sam is clearly not a monster,” he says quietly.

It’s the right thing to say.  Some of the tension leaks out of Dean’s shoulders, and he nods shakily.  “Yeah… Sam is good.  Getting him off the demon blood nearly killed him though.  And being around demons is a temptation for him, always.”

“That’s why you didn’t want him to come on this hunt,” Castiel guesses.

Dean simply nods.

Knowing what he knows now, he understands Dean’s initial refusal of the deal Castiel offered him, even without the additional knowledge of what horrors he’s forcing Dean to revisit.  How awful were they that Dean would rather have hung than to face Alistair again?

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“For pulling you and your brother back into something you’d escaped.”

“You got us off the gallows, and we’re grateful for it,” Dean says, shrugging as if mentally shrugging off painful memories.  “Sometimes life drags you places you don’t want to be.  You take what it hands to you, and you have to choose.  You either live, or you die.”

“And you decided to live,” Castiel concludes.

“Well I am a stubborn bastard.  Can’t let life grind me down.” Dean smiles wryly.  “If you can call running from the law any kind of life, never having a home or anything to call your own.”

Once again, his voice betrays him.  Dean’s levity is tempered by wistfulness, hiding what Castiel senses is a profound sense of loss and pain.  Castiel can see now that he hates the life he’d lived, but had nonetheless followed that chosen path.  He doesn’t know how to respond to that revelation.

“But at least you have Baby,” he says softly, scratching the Appaloosa’s neck.

Dean brightens a little, although there’s still darkness lurking behind his eyes.  “Yes, I have Baby.  And I guess thanks are in order for that.  But I think I’ll wait to see if we live through this.”

Castiel recognizes the humor behind the jab and acknowledges it with a smile.  “She is magnificent,” he says, wanting to know more about Dean but deciding to leave the more painful subjects behind for now.  “How did you come by her?”

“She was born to one of the mares given to my father by the Nez Percé when he helped them destroy a monster that had been terrorizing their tribe.  And when they were forced off their land, the chief was afraid the horses wouldn’t do well in the reservations.  He gave Pa enough breeding stock to start his own herd.  Pa promised he would keep the bloodline true.” Dean’s voice grew quiet.  “But he died and wasn’t able to keep that promise.”

“Where are they now?”

“There’s a small herd of a dozen or so being taken care of by friends.”  Dean takes a shuddering breath.  “They’re keeping them for the day Sam and I return home.”

In one of the agency files Castiel had studied, there was an old notation that the Winchesters had supposedly come from Kansas.  They must have moved to Wyoming territory when Dean was very small, or maybe before he was born.  After the demon had killed Mrs. Winchester’s family.  And yet with such a long distance between where they started and their new home, the demon had still found them.

“Do you intend to go back home someday?” he asks.

Dean shrugs.  “There’s nothing there anymore.  Just the land.”

“You can rebuild,” Castiel points out.

“Maybe.  But we’ve got a hunt to finish first.” He shifts suddenly, and the gates Castiel had feared pushing too hard slam closed.  He pulls his saddlebags from the Appaloosa’s back, and doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes when he speaks.  “Most likely none of us will make it back anywhere, Mr. Jameson.  Now you better find yourself a comfortable spot, and don’t forget to keep the Colt at hand.  If you hear anything, wake me.”

Castiel watches him walk away, and wonders if he’d truly saved Dean from the gallows or only doomed him to further pain.


	15. Chapter 15

Castiel finds a place high in the rocks that gives him a full view of the camp in the moonlight while still providing coverage if he needs it.  From there he can see into the crevice where Dean and Sam are curled under their blankets, although they’re obscured by shadows.  But he’ll be able to see anyone or anything approaching their hidden camp.

He’s nervous, but he’s done this before.  Being in the mountains rather than on a cold rooftop in the city makes little difference.  Only the sounds of the night are changed, from the occasional sound of a carriage or a night watchman’s footsteps to the whisper of the breeze through rocks and the hoot of a distant owl.

A lonely howl of a coyote echoes through the chill night air and off the mountain walls, the only break in the steady rhythm of night insects.  The minutes stretch into hours with no disturbances other than an unsettling moment when an owl sweeps past Castiel so close that he feels the wind from its wings against his cheek.  There’s a startled squeal, silenced by the owl’s talons, and then the hunter disappears over the top of the rocks.  If Dean or Sam are disturbed by the sounds, Castiel sees no sign of movement, although he wouldn’t be surprised if they’re both sleeping with one eye open.  

The angle of the shadows change as the moon shifts overhead, and more than once Castiel’s eyes play tricks on him.  He doesn’t let the false alarms make him complacent, and whenever his eyes start to feel too heavy he stretches his limbs, relishing the loosening of muscles stiffened from sitting in one position for long periods.  And for the entire duration of the watch he keeps his fingers curled loosely around the handle of the Colt.

By midnight everything is still peaceful and quiet, and Castiel is no longer confident in his ability to stay awake.  He climbs down from his perch and into the small cave under the boulders, and nudges Dean.

He’s immediately awake, fully alert, and Castiel is met with a gun barrel just inches from his nose.  When he realizes that it’s Castiel, he relaxes and lowers the gun.  “What is it?”

Castiel is too tired to care about how close he’d come to certain death.  His temper is short due to his exhaustion, and he’s more annoyed that Dean was able to sleep so soundly--both eyes closed--while so much danger hovers over them.  He doubts he’ll be able to sleep so peacefully, despite how tired he is.  “You said to wake you at midnight,” he says stiffly.  “It’s midnight, and I want some sleep.”

With a sigh, Dean throws open his blankets and gets up to take his watch.  “Blankets are still warm,” he says softly.  “Help yourself.”

The offer cuts through Castiel’s annoyance and he smiles gratefully.  “Thank you, I will.”

Dean watches as Cas scoots past him and snuggles into the blankets he’d just abandoned.  “Pleasant dreams, Cas.”

“Uh huh,” Cas hums wearily.  He places the Colt near his head and appears to fall right to sleep.

Dean grins into the darkness and makes his way to the high spot he’d seen Cas use to keep watch.  It’s a good vantage point, and he’s impressed that Cas found it.  Once he’s settled in, he finds it hard to concentrate though.  His thoughts keep returning to the grumpy Pinkerton curled up asleep below him.

Without intending to he’d revealed pieces of himself to Cas that he hasn’t shared with anyone before.  Sam knows because he’d been through most of it with Dean, but it’s not something they ever talk about.  Talking isn’t exactly something Winchesters are good at.  Repressing things is far more their style.  So he’s not entirely sure why he shared so much with Cas.

Maybe it’s because he is starting to see Cas as something of a kindred spirit.  There’s a core of steel in the man’s spine, and a survivor’s instinct that Dean admires.  

Just weeks ago he would have considered Cas an adversary, and he’s sure Cas probably thought the same of him.  Dean certainly did his best to be a pain in the ass for the Pinkerton, if not worse.  But in the short span of their travels Dean’s opinions of the man have changed, and he’s certain the same goes for Cas.  They’re no longer enemies.  They’re allies now.

Maybe more.

His mind wanders to the previous night.  Cas is a passionate man, something Dean could see before, but has firsthand experience of now.  But he’d touched Dean with a tender reverence that left Dean more breathless than their mad tumble through the flood.

They could have easily hurt each other in the heat of passion.  They’d both been vulnerable, with fear still driving through them.  Dean had felt it bubbling inside him, along with days worth of anger and annoyance.  But when they’d come together, all of that had been forgotten and all he’d known in that moment was heat and lust and--

Sand crunching under a boot sends all thoughts of Cas flying, and Dean’s weapon is up and cocked in an instant.  When he sees the silhouette of his giant of a brother in the moonlight, he sighs and eases the hammer back into its resting position.  “You’re as bad as Cas,” he grumbles as he lowers the gun.  “Gonna get your ass shot.”

“I was making plenty of noise.”  Sam settles onto a nearby flattened rock and peers at Dean from under his fringe.  “You were thinking too loud to hear me.”

Dean scowls, but otherwise ignores the accusation.  “Why are you awake?”

Sam shrugs and looks out into the moonlit wilderness surrounding their camp.  “Couldn’t sleep.”

The pensive frown he’s sporting is, unfortunately, a familiar one.  All thoughts of Cas are replaced with a more important concern.  “Did you have a vision?”

“Not exactly.”  Sam shakes his head slowly back and forth, like he’s trying to catch a distant sound.  “More just a feeling of dread that I can’t kick.”

“How worried do I need to be?”  Even if Sam’s full fledged visions have waned since he stopped drinking demon blood, his ‘feelings’ are still pretty accurate, and Dean has learned to trust those instincts.  Heeding them has saved their asses many times over the years.

For a long moment Sam is quiet, and Dean waits impatiently but gives him time to contemplate what he’s feeling.  Finally Sam huffs out a breath and pushes his shaggy hair out of his face.  “I can’t tell for sure, but I think we’re okay for now.”

It’s not the reassurance Dean was hoping for, but he’ll take whatever reprieve they can get.  And he keeps his weapon ready, just in case.

They sit in silence together, eyes trained out at the night.  Despite the looming danger, there’s a small bubble of peace around them, a sense of solidarity Dean rarely experiences with anyone besides his brother.  And even though he keeps his eyes peeled for Apache, he lets his guard down on the one thing he can’t shoot.  

“So… you and Cas.”

Groaning softly, Dean tips his head back on his shoulders and sends up a futile prayer for mercy.  Futile, because not even God can convince Sam to mind his own damn business.  “Do we really have to talk about this?”

“I guess we don’t have to…”

The But is unspoken, but still loud as a gunshot.  Sam’s fully capable of driving Dean crazy without saying anything, and he knows he’s not going to get out of having this conversation.  

It’s the Face.  Sam claims there isn’t a Face, but he’s a damn dirty liar.

“Fine,” he sighs.  “What do you want to know?”

“You slept with him.”

Dean doesn’t know why Sam insists on badgering him about it, since obviously he already knows.  “Did a bit more than that,” he grumbles.

Sam’s face scrunches up briefly in disgust at Dean’s uncouth answer, but he lets it go.  “Is this going to be a regular thing now?”

“Probably not.” Dean certainly wouldn’t mind knocking boots with Cas again.  Hell, he can hardly stop thinking about it, and there are much more important things that should be on his mind right now.  But… “It was a heat of the moment kinda thing.  It’s not like we’re going to get married and pop out a bunch of kids.”

Shadows make Sam’s eyes look black, which makes his interrogation all the more unnerving.  “If you wanted to start a relationship with him, it wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Dean scoffs.  “We don’t even get along--” _that’s not true anymore,_ his conscience whispers as he remembers the talks he and Cas have shared since they tumbled out of the river and into each other’s arms.  “--and he’s a lawman.  I doubt he’ll be interested in tarnishing his shiny reputation by hitching it to mine.”

Sam hums thoughtfully.  “Sounds like you’ve put some thought into it.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, even though he doesn’t have a good refutation prepared.  But before he can speak, he’s interrupted by a low mournful howl.  Instantly they’re both on the alert, hands on their weapons.

“Coyote?” Dean breathes, barely a whisper.

He keeps his eyes on the shadows while Sam concentrates.  When his brother shakes his head after a moment he resists the urge to curse, because any sound carrying on the night winds can lead the danger stalking them right to their hidden camp.

Communicating through hand gestures they split up and carefully creep out into the darkness.  Leaving Cas alone makes him practically itch, but he’s got the Colt so he’s got some defense.  And he’s a damn good shot with it, which makes Dean feel marginally better.  As long as they’re not grossly outnumbered, Cas is safest right where he is.  

Dean keeps a hand on the silver blade he always keeps with him, leaving it sheathed so it doesn’t glint in the moonlight.  And he goes hunting.

* * *

With the pervasive sense of danger hanging over everything, Castiel had been unsure whether he’d be able to sleep.  But eventually the cold seeping into his blankets, the hard rock under his bed, and the stress of the last twenty-four hours no longer matters.  Numbing exhaustion shuts out everything.

Which is why he knows something is wrong when his eyes pop open while it’s still dark outside.  He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, but the night air invading his blankets has a different damp chill to it, and the angle of the moonlight slipping into his rocky shelter has changed.

He’s groggy, and his eyes feel heavy and gritty, but he doesn’t move to rub away their fatigue.  Instead he focuses on his hearing and listens for familiar night sounds.  It’s unnaturally silent.  No click and chirp of insects, or calls from night birds.  Only the hiss of wind through the brush reaches his ears.

A coyote howl cuts through the thick silence, and chills unrelated to the cold ripple over Castiel’s limbs.  He’d heard a few of them during his watch, but they’d been farther away.  And there’s something about this one that sounds wrong, but he’s hard pressed to define why.

Palming the Colt’s cold handle steadies his nerves even though his heart beats madly in his chest.  He lifts his head and looks around the small cave.  He sees the pile of blankets where Sam had been, but they’re empty.  Surely it’s late enough for Sam to have relieved Dean of the watch, but if so then where is Dean?

Beyond the rocks, the pale illumination from the moon reveals that the space where the horses were tied is empty as well.  His heartbeat spikes, but he reminds himself that there is still some of the brothers’ belongings with him in the cave.  Things they wouldn’t abandon just to escape their deal with him.  And he believes their relationship has grown past that possibility anyway.  There is surely another explanation for their absence.

A subtle shift in the shadows draws his attention back to the small clearing outside the sheltering boulders.  Even with the different angle of the moonlight, he’s sure those shadows shouldn’t be there.

He tightens his grip on the Colt but keeps it low so its barrel won’t catch a stray moonbeam and give away his position.  Turning his eyes so that he’s not looking directly at the shadows, he waits.  And sure enough, he sees it again, movement like careful stalking.  First one shadow, then another, and another.  Some the shape and size of men, but some walk on four limbs.  

Apache?  Or worse?

He swallows against the steely tang of rising panic in his mouth and forces himself to think calmly.  Logic dictates that the stalkers know they’re searching for three men and three horses, but the horses are gone and so are two of the men.  Three, as far as they should be able to tell, with Castiel’s hiding spot tucked far back in the crevice under the rocks.

The shadows increase in number, converging and surrounding the camp.  Castiel knows there’s no chance of escape unless he can climb through the rocks above him without being seen.  But he’ll be exposed for however long it takes to scramble to a higher level.

Can he even do it?  And then what?  He has no idea what he’ll do if he manages to sneak away.  As far as he can tell, he’s alone and without a horse or supplies.

For a brief moment rage turns the night red.  Damn Dean Winchester!  After everything that has transpired between them, he’s taken off and left Castiel to be killed!

Castiel’s death would certainly solve a few of Dean’s problems.  He could return to Tombstone and tell his friend Marshal Earp they’d tracked Alistair down and killed him, but that Castiel had died in an indian attack on the way back.  Surely, due to their friendship, the Marshal would accept the story and Dean could persuade him to sign over his clemency papers.

His fingers tighten around the Colt, and if Dean Winchester were within range right now, Castiel would be highly tempted to put another bullet in him.  But the bite of the metal against his hand reminds him that Dean would never leave it behind.  His anger fizzles out as swiftly as it flared up.  Without the haze of anger, he thinks more clearly and he knows that Dean would not leave him to die alone here.  That’s not the kind of man he is.  And Sam has been his ally all along.  

Castiel has no more time to wonder at the reason behind their absence though.  The four legged shadows have their noses to the ground, sniffing for trails.  He has no idea how they haven’t scented him already, but he’s not going to give them more time to do so.

He scoots out from under the blankets and peers out of the crevice he’s hidden in, keeping out of the moonbeams filtering down between the boulders.  The clearing the shadows are searching is slightly below his hiding spot, but they’re spreading out, and it’s only a matter of time before they stumble right over him.

Thankfully he fell asleep fully clothed, and his jacket is dark enough to camoflauge him.  He starts making his way to an opening in the rocks where he can climb up, but he pauses and goes back to his saddle bags.  It’s too much for him to carry up through the tight space, but he despairs at leave them behind.  They hold all of his belongings, several important supplies, and the Winchesters’ unsigned pardons.  Hoping he’ll have a chance to retrieve what he can’t take with him, he carefully reaches inside and grabs his brother’s journal.  In the event that everything else is lost, he can’t bare to leave it.

He tucks the book inside his jacket and crawls back to the opening in the rocks where he’ll attempt to make his escape.  The opening is just barely big enough for him to pass through, and as it is, it’s a very tight squeeze.  But by miracle or by luck, he slips through quietly enough not to attract attention.  The moonlight is just barely enough for him to find ridges in the rock that he can use to pull himself upward, and he climbs until he reaches a small ledge.

Just as he slips onto the flat surface, a hand clamps tightly over his mouth.  A strong arm circles his waist and yanks him into a dark alcove.  He claws at the fingers pressed hard into his cheek and attempts to kick out at his attacker.  A leg is thrown over him, pinning him onto his stomach and crushing his arms under his body.

He’s caught, trapped and helpless without being able to reach for his gun.  

“Cas!” Dean hisses directly into his ear.  “Be quiet!”

The familiar voice slices through the cold grip of fear around Castiel’s lungs and he quits struggling.  His claw-like grip on the hand over his mouth goes loose, and in response the fingers clamped against his cheek relax.

Dean pulls Castiel hard back against him, further into the protective shelter of the rocks.  “Stay still,” he whispers, his breath warm against Castiel’s neck.

Castiel nods his understanding and Dean’s hand disappears from his mouth.  He lets out a slow, shaky breath and does his best to keep his fear in check.  Dean’s presence helps, but from the corner of his eye he can see shadows moving below the ledge moving in toward the camp, seeming to come from every direction.  They’re severely outnumbered.

“Apache?” he whispers.

“Worse,” Dean responds against his ear.  “Skinwalkers.”

Castiel had found an entry about them in John’s journal.  Men who could shift into animals just by wearing cloaks made of their skins.  It’s too fantastical to be true, but the creatures moving around down there are too intelligent to be mere animals.

As they huddle in their hiding place among the rocks, Castiel strains his eyes to see through the darkness.  The shadows continue to play tricks on his eyes, and what sounds he’s able to catch are soft enough that he’s not sure he trusts his ears either.  Each movement could be a Skinwalker about to discover their location, each noise a signal for back up.  But he keeps close track of everything he sees and hears, trying to picture them in his mental map of the camp.

All the while, his heart pounds loud and furious.  Surely it must be audible to the creatures hunting them.

And then all at once, the noises change.  There’s a light scraping sound, very close and just to the left of where they are hidden.  Dean hears it too, and his body tenses against Castiel’s.  His hand jerks up, and there’s a silver knife in his grip, the blade very close to Castiel’s cheek in the tiny amount of space available to them.

The sound comes again and Castiel carefully pulls out the Colt, holding it at the ready.  His straining eyes catch a shifting shadow near their legs, much too close for comfort.  He turns his head in mute warning.  Dean’s face is completely obscured by shadow, but Castiel can tell he received the message by the minute shift of his body.

Cas is warm and solid, and this close Dean can smell the unmistakable tang of his fear.  The Skinwalkers should have definitely sniffed him out by now, and the fact that they’re still searching adds to Dean’s belief that the rosary wrapped around Castiel’s wrist must have some kind of protective spell worked into it.  If they survive this, he’ll need to take a closer look at its sigils and see if he can figure out how it works, because it’ll be very useful.

He senses a subtle shift in Cas’ body, and feels the cold brush of steel against his hand.  Cas keeps the Colt ready, but holds it in the shadows so the moonlight doesn’t catch on the barrel.

Dean doesn’t much care for the fact that Cas got them into this mess, but once again his grudging respect for the Pinkerton grows.  Most city folks would be blubbering in terror, bringing every Apache and Skinwalker within ten miles down on their heads.  But Cas stays calm and cool.  In control.

They might just make it out of this.

The shadow shifts, edging past the ledge hiding them, and then disappears down the incline.  Dean watches and listens, counting off the seconds.  When several minutes have passed he hears the soft warble of a mourning dove.  It’s clear, distinct, and only once.  A signal.

“Come on,” he whispers.  “We’re getting out of here.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Cas asks just as quietly.

“Probably not,” Dean admits.  Cas jerks to stare at him, and Dean can’t see his expression, but he can imagine the horrified stare he’s probably getting.

Castiel is more certain than ever that Dean is insane.  Especially when he crawls over Castiel and out into the open.  He vaguely makes out the shadow of the hand Dean extends to him.

Dear god, he hopes Dean is right about this.  Reluctantly he takes the offered hand.

Dean grins at him as he pulls Castiel out of the crevice in the rocks, teeth flashing in the soft half-light of the sinking moon.  “C’mon, Cas.  Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait, my saddle bags,” Castiel hisses, twisting to look down at the camp.  The shadows are still, no longer crawling with Skinwalkers.

“Leave it.  It’ll only slow us down.”

Castiel hesitates, but he knows Dean is right.  It’s why he left them behind in the first place.  He doesn’t mention the pardons; they’re not as important as finding safety right now.

He follows as Dean leads them upwards, crawling through rocks, inching through narrow cracks and crevices.  They do their best to keep to the deepest shadows, only venturing out when it’s the only option for secure handholds.  

It’s treacherous in the dark, with only the shifting moonlight to guide them.  But Dean slithers up the rocks easily, while Castiel struggles to keep up, suppressing hisses of pain when sharp rocks cut into his naked fingers.  He mourns the loss of his new gloves and hopes he won’t end up with blistered hands again when they’ve just healed.  At least the pain in his hands distracts him from the growing strain in his muscles as he climbs.

He’s careful to follow Dean’s path as precisely as possible.  Dean finds the best places to put his hands and feet, and Castiel trusts him to get them to the top of the ridge much more than he trusts himself.

It seems they climb for an eternity.  His hands and wrists are scraped, his elbows and knees bruised from knocking against rocks, and his feet ache with the extra strain his ill-fitting boots require to dig his toes into crevices.  Eventually they stop to rest in a shadowy notch eroded into the rocky face of the mountain, just big enough for the two of them.  Castiel collapses wearily, pushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead.

“Where is Sam?” he asks when he has the breath to do so.

“Hopefully somewhere out there.” Dean gestures vaguely overhead.  “He won’t get caught,” he whispers with the kind of conviction that sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than Castiel.  “He’ll try to meet up with us later.”

Castiel hears the jagged edge of worry in his voice.  He’s already seen how protective Dean is over his brother, and it must have been incredibly difficult to let Sam go off alone with this kind of danger on their heels.  If Emmanuel were with them, there’s no way Castiel could have allowed him out of sight under such circumstances.

It makes him feel guilty for his moment of doubt and anger, when he thought Dean had left him behind.  Instead Dean had let his beloved brother go off into the mountains alone and had stayed back to guide Castiel to safety.

He doesn’t want to examine the knot of warmth that grows inside him at the thought.  Now is not the time.  If there ever is a proper time for such things.

It doesn’t seem prudent to address Dean’s fears about Sam at this time either.  Distraction is probably the best course, and he does have other questions.  

“What about the horses?”  They’re several days travel from the last settlement, and God only knows how far the next one is.  Castiel is certain they have little chance of reaching it on foot and without supplies.

“I turned them loose,” Dean answers flatly.

“You did what?” Castiel snaps, forgetting to keep his voice down.

“Be quiet!” Dean hisses.  “Voices can carry for miles in these mountains, and you’ll lead them right too us.”  He glares at Castiel until he’s sure the message has sunk in.  “Anyway, if I’d left the horses they would have been found right away, and that would do us any good at all.  There’s only one way in and one way out of these mountains, so I’m hoping they’ll find their way through to the other side.”  His frown deepens.  “We just have to hope the Skinwalkers don’t find them before we do.”

Castiel frowns too.  He’d seen some of the Skinwalkers in canine form.  Surely they would have caught the horses scents.  “Why didn’t they find the horses?  Or us for that matter?”

“I dunno for sure.” Dean gestures at Castiel’s wrist.  “But I think that thing may protect more than just you.  It might be putting out a protective aura.  I’m not sure how far it goes, but I think it’s what kept the camp hidden for so long.  They’ll probably still be able to see us though, so we still need to be careful.”

Castiel fingers the cross of his brother’s rosary, and wishes he knew more about its origins.  Might as well wish for his brother back while he’s at it.  The thought causes a bright lance of pain near his heart, so he goes back to the previous subject.  “So what you’re saying is that we have a fifty-fifty chance the horses will go in the right direction.”

Dean grins.  “Not _bad_ odds.”  The flat look Cas gives him almost makes this whole mess worth it.  “Actually,” he admits, “I hedged the bet just a little.”

“And just how did you do that?” Cas asks doubtfully.

“I sent them in the right direction when I let them loose.”

“Oh, I see,” Cas drawls, drier than the desert sand.  “And of course _nothing_ will spook them and make them turn around and double back.”

“Not likely,” Dean says brightly.

“And why is that?”

Now is absolutely not the time to be teasing Cas.  They’re far from safe where they are, and the danger only grows by the moment.  But Cas’ annoyed squint is irresistible, and Dean can’t help a smug grin.  “Because there isn’t any water where we came from, but there’s an underground spring on the other side.  The horses will be drawn to it.”

The squint narrows even further.  “And the Skinwalkers don’t know it’s there?”

“Oh they know.  So we have to get there first.”  Dean rises to his feet and starts scanning the rocks for a path.  “Off your butt, Cas.  Time to get moving.”

He hears a grumbled insult at his back, and he only refrains from laughing because he needs to save his breath for the rest of the climb.

Castiel glares at Dean’s backside as he ascends the rocky incline.  He’s half tempted to shoot the man right in his shapely posterior in revenge for the teasing.  But he decides the risk of bringing the Skinwalkers down on his head, and ruining such a lovely view isn’t worth the satisfaction.

He bites his lip against the pain in his fingers as he grasps the first few handholds.  The childish urge to sit right back down on the ledge and wait for help rises up, but that means trusting Dean or Sam to come back for him _if_ they find the horses and water.  Plus he refuses to give Dean the satisfaction of seeing him give up.  So he continues to follow Dean, steadily climbing higher.

“Do you really know where you’re going?” he groans when his ribs scrape against rock.

“Yeah,” Dean calls back quietly.  “Up.”


	16. Chapter 16

They climb _up_ for hours.  Until the sun pokes through the jagged peaks and threatens to expose them.  But as far as they can tell, the Skinwalkers haven’t followed them up the mountain.  Whether because of Castiel’s charmed rosary, or the assumption that they won’t survive in the mountains without supplies is up for debate.

Not that either of them would have the inclination, or the breath, to do so.  They share wordless agreement to not look a gift horse in the mouth, and keep climbing.

By midmorning they reach a small passage between the peaks where they can pass through and begin to descend the other side.  The way down is just as treacherous as the climb had been, but made worse by overworked muscles and scraped hands.  The canteen Dean had brought with him is nearly empty, so they don’t stop to rest in the rising heat.  Reaching the spring is their only hope for survival, and they want to spend as little time under the baking sun without water as possible.

The sun is nearly directly overhead when they make their final descent near where Dean believes the spring is, and they finally stop, exhausted, to rest under the shade of some rocks.  Even Dean seems to be reaching the end of his considerable limits.

“Do you know where we are?” Castiel asks after wetting his mouth with barely a sip from the canteen.  It does very little to clear the gritty sand from his mouth, and doesn’t touch his growing thirst at all.

Dean squints skyward.  “Pretty sure we’re close,” he grunts.  He lifts a hand, gesturing to the sun’s position over the peaks they’d been crawling through for so many hours.  “Been following the sun over that rock formation to make sure we stay on course.”

Castiel turns his gaze to where Dean was pointing, but he doesn’t see anything special about that particular group of rocks that distinguish them from others.  When he turns back to Dean and passes him the canteen, Dean screws the cap on without taking any water for himself.  Throughout the morning, Castiel has seen him unscrew the cap, then replace it without drinking several times.  He’s conserving the water by going without.

“Are you worried we won’t find it?” he asks bluntly.

Dean glances up at Castiel through his lashes, green eyes contemplative.  Then he smiles, revealing the crinkles around his eyes, which only showcase the dust and grime coating his handsome face.  “We escaped the undead miners, and the Skinwalkers,” he says with a confidence that Castiel isn’t sure he can share.  “We’ll find it.”

“What about the horses?”  Part of Castiel doesn’t want to know, but self preservation drives him to learn exactly how dire their circumstances are.

Dean shrugs.  “If we don’t find them, it’s one helluva long walk to the nearest town.”  He slings the canteen strap over his shoulder.  “And we’re going to need water whether we walk out of here or ride, so let’s keep looking for that spring.”

He turns and starts around the cluster of rocks that have been providing them shade.  Castiel hesitates, taking careful bearing on their location based on the few landmarks that stand out, and the rocky peak they’d just descended.  He’s not a tracker at the level of the Winchesters, but he does know how to determine direction based on the sun and stars.

They’re just east of the peak, and Dean is heading west.  Castiel starts to follow him, but he takes no more than a few steps out of the shade when he catches movement in the sky.  He looks up, shielding his eyes with a hand.  A hawk soars low over the mountains, close enough for Cas to see its head shifting back and forth as it scans the land below it for prey.  As he watches, it veers off course, swooping down and out of sight.  When it reappears, it has a rabbit clutched in its talons.

It had found its prey east of their current location.

“Dean,” Castiel calls.  “We should go the other way.”

“We need to find the spring,” Dean calls back over his shoulder.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Dean stops and turns to face him, frowning in annoyed confusion.  “Then let’s get going.  It ain’t going to get any cooler out here.”

Castiel gestures in the opposite direction Dean was heading.  “I think it’s better to go that way.”

Before he can explain why, Dean rolls his eyes and cuts him off.  “Sure, I’m going to follow a city greenhorn around in the wilderness.  C’mon, Cas, let’s go.”  He turns, gravel crunching underfoot as he marches away.

Rage makes Castiel’s vision flash red, and he takes a deep breath to calm himself down.  Fighting will be detrimental to both of their survival, especially with the Skinwalker threat still hanging over them.  Giving Dean a piece of his mind over his lack of respect will only feel good until Skinwalkers follow the sound of his angry ranting straight to their location.

“Let’s split up,” he says, when he’s regained control of his temper.

Dean jerks around to stare at him like he’s lost his mind.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  You’ll only get yourself lost.”

“ _Or_ I’ll be fine because I’m not an idiot.  We’ll cover more ground searching separately, and we can meet back here in a few hours.”  He feels like his argument sounds well reasoned, and much calmer than he feels.  But Dean continues to look at him like he’s suffering sun-madness.

“What if you don’t make it back?” he demands.  And then his expression darkens.  “I won’t come after you.”

The warning causes a stab of something near Castiel’s heart.  Betrayal, certainly.  And something more delicate that he refuses to examine.  “I guess I’d better not get lost then,” he replies stiffly.

Dean looks half a second from stomping his foot in frustration.  “Cas, those Skinwalkers are still out there.  They know these mountains inside and out and they could have come through another way.  What if they find you on your own?”

Castiel palms the Colt’s handle where it’s tucked into his pants.  “I’ll be fine.”

“Cas-”

Unwilling to delay any further with Dean’s arguments, Castiel finally lets his building anger come through in his words.  “Dean, we are almost out of water, and we only have one chance of surviving this.  I know you’re not as sure of the spring’s location as you claim.  We _need_ to split our efforts to find it.”

Dean snaps right back.  “And what if I find it first and decide to just leave you out here?”

The wall of anger Castiel has been shielding his heart behind crumbles under the assault of Dean’s question.  He’d thought that after everything they’ve been through in the last few days that they’d be past the threats and lack of faith.

“Why did you pull me out of the river?” he asks quietly.  “Why did you come after me last night?”

There’s a hole under Dean’s feet and he can feel it getting deeper when he’s unable to control his fool mouth.  “I was trying to keep you alive,” he answers angrily.  “You’re my ticket to freedom.”

He doesn’t want to think about how Cas could be more than that now.  Those thoughts are forbidden, dangerous.  They come with hope, which he’s had a long-standing distrust of.

Cas flinches, but the cold mask of professionalism that Dean secretly hates settles over his features.  “You don’t need me for that.  Don’t try to tell me you haven’t thought about abandoning me and taking your chances.”

The harsh edge of Cas’ words cut into Dean.  But he has no one to blame except himself if Cas believes he’s that much of an asshole.  That he’d leave him out here to fend for himself.  He just threatened it, didn’t he?

Because he _is_ an asshole, he opens his mouth and digs his hole even deeper.  It’s starting to resemble a grave, just big enough to bury himself in.  “I’m thinking about it right now.  But I want a clean slate for me and Sammy.  I don’t want bounty hunters dogging my trail, or sheriffs looking for justice, or fast guns trying to make a name for themselves.  That ain’t real freedom.”

Cas gives him a long look and Dean grits his teeth against the childish urge to fidget.  No man other than his pa has ever made him squirm with just a look.  But with Cas he’s fighting the urge to apologize--hell, to _grovel._   But pride keeps his lips sealed and his spine straight.

“Then the choice is up to you,” Cas says softly.  “I’ll be back here in two hours, with or without water.”  He turns on a hell and starts following the base of the mountain east.

“Damn fool… stupid little... “ Dean’s tirade ends there.  He’s not going to waste any more precious time or energy worrying about the stubborn ass.  He returns to his original course, westward, while vaguely wondering how lost Cas can get himself in two hours.

He slows to a stop and looks back.  Cas is already out of sight.  The sudden urge to go chasing after Cas drives him to retrace his steps, but he stops again almost immediately.

“God dammit, Cas,” he says to the empty landscape.  “Don’t get lost.”  And then he continues his trek west.

* * *

Castiel knows where he’s going, despite Dean’s doubts.  He just doesn’t know for certain if the spring lies in that direction.  

He also has some misgivings about striking out on his own, but he still feels that his argument for covering more ground is a valid one.  He trusts Dean’s knowledge of the area, but they are far from the pat Dean is familiar with.  Even someone as experienced as Dean can easily get turned around.  If they both travel in the wrong direction, they’ll waste precious time.  Dean should appreciate his logic.

Pausing, Castiel looks to the sky.  When he catches sight of the hawk again, confirming his bearings, he resumes his march through the rocky canyon.  

Maybe he should have mentioned the hawk to Dean.  Where there’s life, there’s likely water.  Would Dean have listened to him then?  Possibly, but Castiel admits to himself that he also wants to prove to Dean that he’s not some damsel in distress, requiring a rescue from every small challenge.

Unfortunately, he appears to have been wrong in his choice to follow the hawk.  By his estimation he’s been traveling for nearly an hour and there’s still no sign of the spring.  If he doesn’t find it soon, he’ll have to go back in failure.

He rounds a rock wall and reaches out to steady himself to step over a cluster of smaller rocks in his path, but a sudden and intense rattle freezes him in place, hand hovering in mid-air.  His eyes zero in on the movement, and he curses internally.  He’d nearly grabbed the damn snake’s tail.

The snake is half coiled, flattened on the warm rock.  Its black, beady eyes lock onto him, and Castiel breaks into a cold sweat despite the heat.  When he attempts retreat, slowly withdrawing his hand, the snake rears up, coiling tighter around itself as it gathers to strike.  The warning rattle intensifies.

The loud crack of gunfire causes Castiel’s whole body to jerk in startlement, and he’s sure in that instant that he’s going to be bitten.  But the snake flies back as if yanked by an invisible cord.  It twists and spasms, and Castiel can see that its head has been severed from its body.

He spins around and stares in open-mouthed shock at Dean.  

A thin plume of smoke coils up from the barrel of Dean’s gun, and directly behind it Dean smiles cheekily.  “Heya, Cas.”

All the fear pumping through Castiel’s veins transmutates into anger.  “You almost shot me!”

Dean’s grin falls, and he stares back at Castiel in annoyed bemusement.  “If I’d wanted to shoot you, I would have,” he says mockingly, echoing Castiel’s pronouncement after their confrontation in Pamela’s bedroom.  He pushes past Castiel to examine the dead snake, and his lip curls up in disgust.  “Damn, I really hate these things.”

“I had everything under control,” Castiel says stiffly.  He eyes the snake and backs away a step.

Dean glances back at him with faint amusement.  He lifts the body of the snake, letting it dangle so it stretches out to its full length of nearly five feet.  “These bastards can strike the distance of their body.”  His eyes flick from Castiel to the snake’s resting spot and back.  His expression clearly says he doesn’t think Castiel could have gotten out of striking distance in time.

Castiel hates it, but Dean _is_ right.  “Well, thank you,” he mutters.

Dean’s eyebrows go up in surprise, which agitates Castiel’s temper again.  But he’s going to be the better man and quit sniping with Dean, since he _did_ save Castiel’s life.

Or so he tells himself.  Instead, he immediately breaks his resolve by opening his mouth.  “Did it occur to you that the Skinwalkers might have heard that gunshot?”

“Oh, it occurred to me,” Dean admits.  “But the snake was here, and they are not… yet.  And I _really_ hate these things.” He jiggles the snake lightly, glancing at it with vivid disgust.

Castiel can now confirm that he feels exactly the same.  He glares at the long body dangling from Dean’s fist, and tries to hang onto his anger.  Without it, he’ll break down and admit that he’s more scared by his near miss with the snake than he is of the Skinwalkers.  

“Did you at least find the spring?” he grits out.

“Nope.  It’s not in that direction.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I told him,” Sam says at Castiel’s back.

Castiel jerks around and gapes as Sam rides into the little clearing, leading Dean’s Appaloosa and Castiel’s gelding.

Dean grins at Castiel’s shock.  “He came riding up a little while after you took off in this direction.  The horses found the spring.”

Sam dismounts and steps up next to Castiel.  He wrinkles his nose at the snake in Dean’s hand.  “I hate those damn things,” he mutters.

“But they make good eating,” Dean says.  He approaches his horse, even though she gives him a warning look, and digs through his saddle bags.  

Sam sighs.  “ _You’re_ cooking the damn thing.”

Dean pulls out an empty flour sack and drops the snake’s body into it.  “Sure, Sammy.  I’ll protect you from the creepy crawly.”

“Ass,” Sam grunts.  He deliberately turns away from his brother and looks Castiel over with concern that fades from his expression when he confirms Castiel is in one piece.  It’s replaced by a welcoming smile.  “Good thing you came this way,” he says.  “Dean was going in completely the wrong direction.”

They both ignore Dean’s indignant sputtering.  Castiel gestures to the clear sky.  His hawk soars overhead.  “I saw signs of life and thought it would be best to follow them.”

“Smart,” Sam says approvingly.  “Although there’s a better trail back that way a bit.”  He cocks his thumb in the direction he’d come from.  “One that the horses can fit through.”

“Yeah, so we better quit flappin’ our gums and get going before the Skinwalkers come investigating that gunshot,” Dean says as he mounts his horse.  He lifts an eyebrow at Castiel.  “Unless you want to wait around for them.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, turning Baby’s head in the direction Sam had indicated.

Castiel leans closer to Sam and speaks in a lowered voice so Dean won’t hear his admission.  “I might have also picked this direction because it was the opposite of where he was headed.”

Sam snorts and replies in a matching conspiratorial tone.  “Can’t really blame you.”

They share a glance, and Castiel feels a bond forming with this giant of a man.  He smiles, pleased to have made an ally.

They mount up and follow Dean, and in less than twenty minutes they arrive at the spring.  Castiel tries not to be smug that he’d been right while they water the horses and fill their canteens.  By the way Dean scowls at him when their eyes meet, he doesn’t think he’s doing a very good job of hiding it.  But he _was_ right, so he doesn’t feel guilty for annoying Dean.  Not at all.

For the rest of the day Dean pushes them hard, determined to reach the small town of Las Cruces just past the border of New Mexico Territory.  Cas looks ready to fall out of his saddle, but doesn’t complain, and Sam’s grim expression says he understands the quickened pace he demands.  

He breathes a little easier once they’re out of the mountain range, with the sun at their backs.  They’re hopefully out of the Skinwalkers’ territory, and they should no longer be a threat.  But that doesn’t mean they’re safe.  They could run afoul of other bands of Indians, or worse.

It’s after midnight when they arrive in Las Cruces, and Dean has to rouse the owner of the livery stables to ask for stalls and fresh hay for the horses.  Even Baby’s head is sagging from the pace he’d set, and they deserve to be taken well care of after a ride that hard.

The man gives them all a wary stare, his eyes lingering longest on Sam’s tall form, but he takes their money readily.  “I suppose I’ve got room for the horses,” he says, eyeing the money greedily before pocketing it.

While Cas talks to the stable owner about places to stay for the night, Dean and Sam retrieve their saddle bags.  Cas had to leave his behind, and Dean makes a mental note to find a place for supplies the next day.

“Is everything okay between you two?” Sam asks, quietly so his words don’t carry to Cas.  

Dean sighs.  He’s too tired to have this conversation, but he’s also too tired to fend it off.  “We’re fine, Sam.”

“Really?”

Dean throws a glare at his brother.  “It’s been a rough couple of days.  We all just need some rest.”

Sam’s shoulders relax and he smiles sympathetically.  “That’s the truth.  It’ll be nice to sleep in a bed.”

“Hell yes,” Dean agrees.

“Mr. Peterson says that our best bet is the hotel,” Castiel says as he rejoins them.  His lips pull down when he notices their saddlebags, and Dean feels a little guilty for leaving his stuff behind at the camp.  “It will probably be expensive since the boarding house is full because of a cattle drive coming through town.”  He sighs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.  “If they’ll take an IOU I can probably have some money wired in when the bank opens in the morning--”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam cuts in.  “We can take care of it.”

Castiel feels a combination of gratitude and guilt at Sam’s offer.  This is his mission, and he always planned to fund it himself, but under the current circumstances he’ll accept Sam’s offer.  He tries not to think of where they obtained money.  If it was theft, he doesn’t want to know, and if it’s from the dead miners, he doubly doesn’t want to know.

Since Sam seems to be holding the purse strings, he leads the way out of the stables after they’ve made sure their horses are being well taken care of.  Castiel is so weary that his muscles no longer complain as he trudges along behind Sam.  

He thinks longingly of sleeping on an actual bed with a mattress instead of the hard ground.  Even a lumpy mattress would be softer than a blanket among the rocks, and it sounds like pure heaven.  He’d like a bath too, hot if possible, but at this point he’ll settle for wet as long as there’s soap.  He’s too tired to even think about food.

When Dean notices Cas limping and lagging behind, he slows his own steps to walk alongside him.  He waves Sam ahead, silently ordering him to take care of getting them set up at the hotel.  

“You doing okay there, Cas?”

Cas lifts his head slowly, and squints at Dean in confusion.  “I’m fine,” he says dismissively.  He continues to trudge forward, and he seems to make an effort to hide the hitch in his gate.

Dean holds his peace, but he can see the way Cas is favoring his left heel.  Probably blisters.  The dead man’s boots on his feet fit worse than the ones he started the trip with.  Better than going barefoot, but he’ll need better ones before they leave Las Cruces.

He keeps his pace matched to Cas’ and they make their way side by side to the hotel.  He’s looking forward to spending the night in a real bed, with clean sheets.  And he’s sure Cas is going to appreciate the hell out of an actual mattress too.  Unlike Sam and Dean, he’s not accustomed to living without the basic comforts of a bed.  And Dean finds himself looking forward to seeing Cas enjoy those comforts again.

It’s an odd feeling, but he’s rescued from having to examine it by their arrival at the hotel.  Inside they find Sam already working with the sleepy desk clerk to sign them in.  While Sam takes care of that, Dean keeps an eye on Cas and make sure he doesn’t walk into any walls.  He’s so visibly exhausted that Dean isn’t sure he sees where they’re going.

Sam finishes with the clerk and they follow him upstairs to the second floor.  He stops in front of a door halfway down the hall and unlocks it.  Holding the door open, he gestures for Dean and Cas to precede him inside.

“Because of the cattle drive they’re almost full,” Sam says from the doorway.  “There’s only two rooms, so someone’s going to have to share.”

He holds out the door key, and Dean automatically accepts it from him, although suspicion is already starting to swirl in his gut since Sam isn’t coming inside as well.  And then Sam grins like the bastard he is and gives them a lazy salute.  “You fellas have a good night.  Try not to smother each other, okay?”

The door shuts behind him before Dean or Cas have a chance to react.

Dean glares at the closed door.  

Cas hasn’t quite figured it out yet.  “Where did he go?”

“To his own room, apparently,” Dean drawls.  He eyes Cas warily, waiting for the situation to really sink in.  

When understanding dawns, Cas’ eyes go wide and he looks fully awake.  “He said there are two rooms.”

“Looks like he doesn’t feel like sharing tonight,” Dean says.  He doesn’t mind sharing a room himself, and there’s even a tiny part of him that’s kind of looking forward to sharing with Cas.  

“So he expects _us_ to share?” Cas practically squeaks.

If Sam’s shenanigans make Cas mad at Dean, then Dean’s going to whoop his ass the next chance he gets.  But he’s too tired to worry about it, so he only shrugs.  “Unless you want to go knocking on doors until you find him and share with him instead.”

Cas turns questioning blue eyes on Dean.  “Why doesn’t he share with you?”

Because he’s still trying to play matchmaker, but Dean isn’t going to tell Cas that.  There’s nothing between him and Cas.  There can’t be.  And when he’s less tired, maybe he’ll try to beat that knowledge into Sam’s thick skull.

For tonight, he’ll make the best of the situation Sam has put them in.  “You too good to share a room, Cas?”  he snarks as he drops his bags inside the door after locking it.

“Of course not,” Castiel protests.  He’s absolutely not above sharing a room.  He’s done it before with other agents while they were on assignments, though typically they stayed in rooms with two beds, or they took turns sleeping.  But he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the bed.

The single bed.

The very narrow, single bed.

It’s big enough for two people, but only if they don’t mind being pressed together the whole night.  Maybe smaller people would sleep more comfortably in it, but Dean is large and Castiel is not a slight man by any definition.

Dean sits down on the edge to pull off his boots, and Castiel’s attention fixes on him.  The bed sinks invitingly under his weight, and Castiel’s whole body cries out for its soft comfort.  But he’s frozen near the door, unable to process the idea of sharing it with Dean.

His tired brain goes even fuzzier when Dean starts to disrobe.  He follows each movement, mouth going dry as golden skin and firm muscles are revealed to his gaze.  The memory of those muscles under his palms, hard under soft skin, sends his blood pounding through his veins.

Dean doesn’t seem to pay Cas any mind.  Once he’s stripped down to his underwear, he pulls back the blanket, rolls onto the mattress, and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders.  Having his view of Dean’s body blocked doesn’t help Castiel regain control of himself because his imagination takes over.  It supplies him with images of sliding under the blanket and pressing his bare chest to Dean’s back, draping an arm over his hips and palming his--

“Cas, it’s after midnight,” Dean growls, interrupting Castiel’s runaway train of thought.  “Are you gonna stand there all night?”

Castiel frowns at his back.  His own spine goes ramrod straight and he tries to clamp down on his arousal.  “I don’t think sharing the bed is appropriate.”

“I think we’re a little beyond false notions of propriety,” Dean drawls.  He fluffs his pillow and settles in more comfortably.

Castiel is rooted to the floor.  He’s tired, hot, completely out of sorts, and uncomfortably hard in his pants.  And now a dull ache is beginning to throb at the base of his skull.

Dean Winchester has that effect on him.  He’s the root cause of all Castiel’s discomforts _and_ he’s too attractive for Castiel’s peace of mind. 

He’s deep in thought about how aggravating Dean is when Dean turns over and snaps at him so loud that Castiel jumps.  “Sleep on the damn floor for all I care.  But if you stand there for one more minute, tapping your damn foot, you’ll sleep in the hallway.”

Castiel’s foot goes still and his face heats with chagrin because he hadn’t been aware he’d been tapping it.  But embarrassment mixed with exhaustion turns to anger and he snaps right back.  “Is that right?”

“Yes!  Christ!  I’ve never seen anybody so mixed up.  You didn’t mind snuggling up in those rocks with me last night, but now you act like your virtue’s in danger.”

“We weren’t ‘snuggling’,” he growls.  “We were hiding during a life threatening situation.  And my virtue--such as it is--has no bearing on the situation.” He pauses, then admits, “it’s just that the bed is very small.”

Green eyes narrow at him.  “The crack in the rocks was even smaller, as I recall.  And besides,” he points out, “we’ve been even closer than that.  Or have you forgotten?”

Memories of rain drenched skin and straining bodies fill Castiel’s mind and he shoves them away before his body betrays him.  He senses he’s already losing this argument.  “I haven’t forgotten,” he bites out.

Dean rises up on his elbows, causing the blanket to slip down and bare his chest.  “Then what bothers you so much about sharing the bed?”

Mostly the fact that he wants it so much.  Wants _Dean_ so much.  But he doesn’t _want_ to want him.

When Cas doesn’t answer right away, Dean sighs.  The man can be more aggravating than anyone he’s ever known.  He rubs a hand over his face, grimacing at the grit he hasn’t had a chance to wash away.  If he wasn’t about to fall over, he’d have looked into getting a bath before getting into a bed.

“Look,” he says, dropping his hand and giving Cas what he hopes is a reasonable look and now a scowl.  “It’s late and we have only a few hours until sunrise.  I ain’t no gentleman, but I can keep my hands to myself if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Castiel isn’t worried about what Dean might do, and he feels intense guilt for implying that Dean is the kind of man that would take what isn’t offered.  But he also can’t--won’t--admit that he’s more afraid of his own actions.  “Dean, I…”

Something sad passes through Dean’s eyes, but it’s hidden quickly under the cool mask that Castiel now recognizes as a cover for deeply hidden emotions.  “Cas,” he says wearily, “the way I look at it, you can choose the floor, the chair, or the bed.  With me in it, ‘cause I’ve already made my choice.  Pick one, and get some sleep.”

His eyes linger on Castiel for a moment after he lays out the options.  Then he lies back down and turns his back to the center of the bed, and to Castiel.  He stays close to the edge, giving Castiel as much space as possible on the narrow mattress.

Castiel stares at that open space for several heartbeats before he makes his decision.  He’s sore, and tired, and the mattress looks soft and inviting.

He’ll just have to control himself, he thinks.  And reaches for the buttons of his shirt.


	17. Chapter 17

Despite not being large, the bed is incredibly comfortable.  The mattress is soft and the pillow is plump, and his weary body sinks into it.  If he were not so focused on the man sharing it with him, the bed would be the perfect resting place for Castiel’s sore and overworked muscles.  

Castiel can’t sleep.

Dean falls asleep easily, probably accustomed to taking what rest he can, where he can.  He’s a solid wall of heat, and no matter how Castiel shifts, some part of their bodies touch.  Their hips brush when he lies on his back, their feet bump together when he rolls onto his side facing away from Dean, and more than once he wakes from a doze to find his face pillowed against Dean’s shoulder.

He stays as close to the edge of the bed as he can, but it sinks near the middle, pulling them together.  So he lies awake and stares into the dark, imagining what it would be like to just let himself have what he wants.  To let himself roll up against Dean’s body and soak up his warmth.  To feel the way their chests brush together as they breathe, and the way the hair tickles on their legs as they become tangled under the blankets.

He imagines waking with the sun, and pulling Dean closer.  Seeing his eyes flutter open, a more vivid green up close than Castiel’s imagination has the ability to create.

The scenarios of how they would greet the morning together shock him.  He’s fantasized about men before, but without experience to build upon.  Now, he knows what Dean’s mouth feels like, his hands, the firm wall of his chest, and the burning heat of his cock.

It’s unsettling, the way his tired mind and body conspire against him.  Giving him a tepid taste of what could be if only…

He’s distracted from those imaginings when Dean moans in his sleep.  At first he thinks somehow Dean has become aware of his fantasies, but then he makes another noise and it is not one of arousal.  

It’s fear.  He’s dreaming.  

Dean thrashes slightly, knocking the blanket away from his shoulders before going still again.  Castiel holds his breath, waiting to see if he’ll settle down completely.  But Dean begins to mutter in vague, disjointed sentences.

On the trail, Castiel had been too worn out to stay awake long, usually falling asleep before the brothers, and waking when they were already up and almost ready to resume their journey.  He’d never noticed whether Dean were plagued by nightmares on the trail, although he suspects that Dean probably didn’t allow himself to sleep deeply enough to experience them.  But now, off the trail and away from danger, it’s different.  He’s safe enough to relax completely.  And Castiel is suddenly aware that Dean is still haunted by the demons of his past.

Dean babbles soft, fragmented pleas for mercy, and he lashes out at something dangerous with a wordless shout of fear, nearly striking Castiel.  Little of what he says makes sense.  Something about a fire, something else about someone named Ruby, and something about blood, usually accompanied by a demand not to drink it.  

That last is especially disturbing.  Who would do such a thing?

He gets his answer almost immediately.  

“No… Sammy, NO,” Dean grunts through gnashing teeth.

Castiel wonders if he should wake him.  He’s clearly distressed, but if Dean doesn’t recognize him right away, he’s afraid he’ll risk injury.

Before he can decide what to do, Dean’s wild mutterings change.  A sheen of sweat breaks out over his body, dampening his hair and the sheets.  The muscles in his arms and across his chest twitch and contort.  His fingers curl into fits.  He reaches out in one moment, and tries to protect himself in the next.  Over and over he calls for Sam--Sammy.  Begging for help, for mercy… for death.

Castiel gasps at that last.  He stares at Dean in building horror as he cries out for mercy again.

“Alistair please no, PLEASE--oh god oh god please…”

At the name of the man that killed Emmanuel, Castiel goes cold. 

The reports he’d read on Dean Winchester said he rode with Alistair’s gang, and he’d assumed Dean was a cold blooded murderer, an outlaw with no respect for law or the sanctity of life.  As he’s come to know Dean, he has wondered what possible reason he could have for willingly following Alistair’s leadership.  From the fearful sounds Dean is making, Castiel is beginning to believe Dean wasn’t with him by choice.

What horrors did Alistair inflict on Dean to give him such terrifying nightmares?

And what did Emmanuel suffer at the demon’s hands?

With his new experience and knowledge of the supernatural world, his overactive imagination begins to construct one horrifying scenario after another.  Some so terrible that he wishes his brother really had been mauled by a bear as the authorities had reported.  As terrible as that would have been, it would at least have been quick.

Beside him, Dean flings an arm across the bed and over Castiel’s chest.  It pins him to the mattress and pulls him from his spiraling thoughts.  Dean goes still, sighing and pressing his face against the bolt of Castiel’s shoulder.  The demons haunting his dreams seem to have released him for now.

The memory of his anguished cries, filled with pain and a profound sense of loss, touch something deep inside Castiel.  They’ll haunt him, giving him a knowledge of the way his brother probably suffered that he can never forget.

These thoughts leave him restless and agitated, and he doesn’t believe he’ll be able to sleep at all now.  He slides out from under Dean’s arm and out of the bed, careful not to wake him now that he’s sleeping peacefully.  Rubbing both hands over his face, he winces at the growing stubble on his cheeks and the grit still coating his skin.  He craves a bath, with clean hot water to wash away the dirt and the fear and the grief he feels for his brother.  But he doubts the hotel owner would appreciate him asking for one at this hour, so he’ll have to wait until morning.  

His eyes, burning with lack of sleep, land on the overstuffed chair Dean had suggested he sleep in.  It won’t be comfortable to sleep sitting up, but the bed had also brought him little comfort.  Maybe he’ll be able to rest in the chair, even if he doesn’t sleep.  Its cushioned seat will still be far more comfortable for his aching bones than a saddle or the rocky earth under a thin blanket.

He pulls a light quilt from where it was folded on the foot of the bed and settles in the chair.  He rests his chin on his fist and contemplates Dean in the soft moonlight streaming from the window.

There’s so much about him that isn’t written in the official agency reports or on the wanted posters.  He’s a mass of contradictions, a puzzle with missing pieces that don’t come together to create a full picture.  

Dean is a killer, something he’s never denied, although Castiel knows now that there is more to that truth.  But he’s still dangerous, deceptive, and unpredictable.  He’s more comfortable with horses than people, but his brother means a great deal to him.  Enough to give up his life for.

Castiel grows drowsy watching Dean sleep peacefully in the wake of his nightmares.  After a while he concludes that he’ll never fully understand Dean, or learn the depth of his secrets.

* * *

Dean wakes to find himself alone in the bed.  He sits up slowly, and when he looks around for signs of the Pinkerton, he finds him almost immediately.  He’s huddled in the chair, legs pulled up against his chest and head pillowed on his knees.  At one point he must have been covered, but the quilt has slipped to the floor, leaving him hugging himself for warmth.

Disappointment thrums inside him.  Cas had decided the discomfort of the chair was preferable to sharing the bed with Dean.

“Stubborn,” he whispers.  “Too stubborn.  It’s going to get you in trouble someday.”

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and studies the angle of the light coming through the thin curtains over the windows.  He’d slept longer than he planned, but he barely feels rested.  At least there aren’t new bruises from rocks under his bedding though, and he considers that a win.

He pulls on his pants and boots, moving quietly to not disturb Cas.  If Dean is still tired, Cas probably needs even more sleep.  

There’s a pitcher and a tin basin near the door, which he uses to wash some of the grit from his skin.  He’d like a bath and a shave, but he has things he needs to take care of before they can leave.  And he’d like to get out of Las Cruces as soon as possible.

He shrugs on his shirt over his still damp shoulders.  When he’s fully dressed he straps on a gun belt and tucks away a few knives among his clothes, including the silver knife he’d kept under his pillow, which he now tucks into his boot.

When he’s ready to leave, his eyes fall on Cas again and he hesitates, hands on his hips.  Curled up like that, he looks very young.  His lashes are dark half-moons against his cheeks, and his lips are parted as he breathes deeply in sleep.  He looks like a man just past the cusp of boyhood.  He looks innocent.

Dean smiles faintly.  Cas may not be hardened by a life of toil and hardship, but he’s no innocent.  And Dean is fully aware that he’s very much a man.  He’s far more capable than Dean had first given him credit for, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised if he’s sleeping with a weapon.

He should leave Cas there, let him wake with a crick in his neck, but he doesn’t.  With a snort of disgust, he risks waking Cas by slipping a hand around his waist and another under his knees.  Cas isn’t light; he’s as tall as Dean and surprisingly well muscled.  But Dean is strong from a lifetime of digging up graves and carrying corpses.  He can even lift Sammy when needed, and Cas is a similar in weight but far less gangly.  And it’s only a few steps to the bed.

On the way, something thumps to the floor at his feet.  He looks down at the silvery gleam of the Colt’s barrel, and shakes his head with a smile.  

Cas murmurs something and shifts in Dean’s arms.  Dean holds him tighter, with the excuse that he doesn’t want to drop him, and ignores how good it feels to have Cas’ head pillowed on his shoulder.

By some miracle Cas stays sound asleep as Dean carefully sets him on the bed.

In truth, it’s less of a miracle, and more likely a side effect of being run into the ground.  Dean doesn’t regret pushing him so hard for the last few days, not with so much danger dogging their heels.  But he does hope that this chance for rest will do Cas some good while they’re in town.  It would be nice to see the dark bags under his eyes disappear.  

He pulls the blanket over Cas’ shoulder.  There’s no reason not to let him sleep.  Dean can handle getting supplies and he has a few inquiries he wants to make.  He’s sure they’re still on Alistair’s trail, but he needs to get news from the area to make sure.  A glance at the window reveals that it’s fully light outside, and he can hear townsfolk already starting to go about their days.  He should be able to take care of his business quickly, especially if Sam is awake to help.

When he looks back at Cas, he finds himself rooted to the floor next to the bed.  Maybe it’s the curve of Cas’ fingers against the pillow by his head, maybe it’s the wild tangle of his dark hair.  Maybe it’s the angle of the light and how it brightens the tips of his lashes.  Or maybe it’s something far different, something intangible, that compels him to reach down and touch Cas.

His knuckles brush over the almost-beard covering Cas’ cheek.  It’s long enough now that it’s soft instead of prickly.  He runs his thumb along Cas’ bottom lip, remembers how he tasted the night of the storm, of wind and rain and passion.

Need curls tight and painful inside him, but it’s nothing compared to another craving that he’s kept buried for a very long time.  Something softer and yet more powerful than sexual desire.

It’s far more dangerous.  For Dean, and for anyone who gets close to him.  He knows from experience.  He knows he’s poison.  But his heart still aches for that closeness, and he briefly allows himself to imagine having it.  With Cas.

Dean bends over the bed, driven by a dangerous impulse.  He kisses Cas softly, just the barest brush of their lips, lest he wake him.

It’s not enough.  

His mouth moves over Cas’, tasting, exploring the softness of his lips.  His tongue runs across the curve of that full bottom lip.

The danger increases when Cas responds through the haze of sleep.  His lips part on a sigh and his tongue brushes against Dean’s.  The sigh turns into a moan of pleasure.

Dean jerks away from Cas, breathing hard and berating himself for his lack of control.  It’s his discipline that has kept him alive, but he’s quickly learning that with Castiel Jameson he has very little of it.

Most of his life, Dean has lived in the constant shadow of danger and risk.  But this is different.  For the first time in a long time it feels… frightening.

Because the feelings Cas rouse in him are something he’d thought no longer existed in him.  Something torn out and eradicated by the traumas of his life, leaving his heart too scarred to beat properly for himself, much less for someone else.  He’d forgotten what it feels like.  How tempting the feelings are to give in to.

He can’t.  Cas doesn’t even want him, if his stubborn refusal to share the bed with him is any indication.  But even if he did, Dean can’t allow himself that kind of vulnerability.  Not when he lives the life of a Hunter.  A life that will likely be cut short, leaving those he cares about alone in a world inhabited by too many horrors.

He pulls away from Cas and leaves the room, telling himself that he can bury the feelings.  That Cas is nothing more to him than a warm body.  But as he walks away from the sleeping man, something inside him aches.

* * *

When Castiel wakes, Dean is gone and he finds himself back in the bed.  He frowns as he sits up, wondering if he’d been so tired that he’d dreamed of moving to the chair.  But his eyes land on the blanket crumpled on the floor next to it.

How did he get back to the bed?

And where is Dean?

He sees Dean’s rifle and saddlebags and he relaxes.  Dean wouldn’t leave without them, so he can’t be far.  

Throwing the blanket back, Castiel gets out of bed and dresses hastily.  He doesn’t know how much time he has until Dean will want to leave town, so he hurries downstairs and checks on the possibility of a bath.  

The hotel owner’s wife informs him of a bathing room that can be used for a dollar.  The price would seem steep at any other time, but Castiel is so filthy that it’s worth five times the cost.

An hour later he’s washed, rinsed, shaved, and soaking up to his neck in warm soapy water.  The heat helps unknot some of the kinks in his back, which makes him wonder again how he came to wake up in the bed.  Does Dean have the strength to move him?  If so, was he so exhausted that being moved didn’t wake him?  Or had he simply sleep walked back to the comfort of bed on his own?

No matter how it happened, he’d slept well.  He hasn’t felt this rested in what feels like ages.

When the door flies open and Dean strides in, Castiel sits up in alarm, splashing soapy water over the tub’s rim.  “That door was locked!”

Dean grins brightly.  “Locks don’t stop me.”

“What exactly does stop you?” Castiel mutters as he sinks back down in the water.

“Not much,” Dean says, far too cheerful about it.  He closes the door and drops a bundle on the floor, then approaches the tub.  His green eyes sparkle with mirth and something more when they dip down toward the water.

The soap bubbles have mostly dissipated, and Castiel realizes he’s completely exposed to Dean’s gaze.  With a withering glare of warning, he crosses his hands over his lap and wills his body to stay unresponsive to Dean’s warm stare.  “Do you mind?” he snaps.

“I don’t mind at all, Cas.”  Dean doesn’t look up, and his smile turns rakish.  “Not one bit,” he drawls.  

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel huffs.  

“Oh don’t be such a prude,” Dean says, finally lifting his gaze from the water.  “I ain’t gonna take advantage of you just because you’re naked.”

“Well clothing certainly doesn’t seem to stop you either,” Castiel grits out, and then he clamps his lips shut.  He hadn’t planned on bringing up the night of the storm.

Dean snorts.  “Of course not.  They’re easier to get through than locks.”

Castiel tries glaring harder, but Dean only waggles his eyebrows and gives him an unrepentant wink.  He glances around the room until he finds a chair, and he grabs it and drags it close to the tub.  Once he’s seated, his expression sobers.  “We need to talk about Alistair.  He’s been seen in the area.”

The news makes Castiel forget all about his nudity, and he sits up in the tub, gripping the sides until his knuckles whiten.  “What about him?  Who did you speak with?”

Dean gives Cas a long, thoughtful look that has nothing to do with Alistair or their hunt, and everything to do with the sight he makes in the slightly rusty tub.  His skin is wet, his dair hair damp from a recent washing, and Dean is taken back to the night of the storm.  He’d been allowed to touch that skin, rosy now from the heat of the bath and maybe something more.  

He’d tasted the hollow of Cas’ throat, felt his adam’s apple bob under his lips.  His fingers hand tangled in the dark strands of Cas’ hair while Dean kissed him.  On the mouth, and anywhere--everywhere--he could reach.

Frowning, he shifts his legs to hide his body’s reaction and shoves the memories away.  That night was a one time thing, which Cas made clear by his refusal to share the bed last night.  

Clearing his throat, he focuses on the subject at hand.  “I spoke with a few of the cowhands that haven’t left yet.  There’ve been two ranches raided and burned to the ground.”

The news stuns Castiel, even though he’s been chasing Alistair for years and has seen countless reports of his evil deeds.  Somehow this feels worse, because he’s so close.  He is no longer separated from the events by hundreds of miles and words in a report.  “When did this happen?”

“About six weeks ago.”

Castiel swallows against the tightness in his throat.  “And it was Alistair?”

Dean shrugs and half nods.  “Comancheros.  But he was leading them.”

He’s heard of Comancheros.  They’re a mixed group of bandits from many backgrounds.  In the last few years they’d been attacking settlements along the borders between Mexico and Texas, and the territories.  They’re ruthless killers, and gunrunners, supplying rifles and ammunition to outlaws who in turn attacked farms, ranches, and remote mining communities.  The Comancheros took no prisoners and never left anyone alive.  And they seemed to take particular delight in torturing their victims.  

“Are they demons?” he asks, finding hope in the thought that the kind of evil they’re known for may not be perpetuated by humans.

“Maybe a few,” Dean says, dashing his hopes.  “It doesn’t take a demon to do what they do.  But demons might tag along for the fun of it, and to spur them on.  Usually possessing one or more poor bastards who would never have fallen into a life of crime if they weren’t being used as a meatsuit for hellspawn.”

His voice wavers on the last few words and Castiel locks eyes with him.  He sees vulnerability in their depths, along with fear and knowledge.  “You know from experience,” he guesses.

It would make sense of why Dean had ridden with Alistair for so long.  Castiel can’t imagine any other reason that he would do so.  Not when he speaks of the Comancheros with such distaste.

Dean shoves up onto his feet and stalks away from the tub.  His shoulders are rigid, and his voice is sharp when he speaks.  “We’ve gotta get you protected,” he says, without acknowledging Castiel’s statement.  “Sam’s out getting supplies.  We’re meeting him at the boarding house for breakfast, and then you’re getting inked with a warding.”  He pauses with his hand on the doorknob and casts Castiel a hard look.  “Keep that rosary of yours close in the meantime.”

Then he flings open the door and strides out into the hall.  Without looking back, he says “be downstairs in half an hour or Sam and I will be leaving without you.”  The door slams loudly in his wake.

Castiel doesn’t believe the threat, but he hurries out of the tub anyway.  With the towel wrapped around his hips in case Dean comes storming back in for any reason, he crouches down and examines the bundle Dean had left behind.

It contains a change of clothes, new gloves, a wide brimmed hat like the brothers wear, and soft leather boots that look like his exact size.  He looks up at the closed door, not truly seeing it, as he realizes that Dean replaced everything he’d lost in the mountains.

Thumbing the soft flannel shirt, he wonders if Dean would accept his gratitude or brush it off.  Either way, he is very grateful.  Especially when he tries the boots on and they fit perfectly without pinching is toes or sliding around his feet with too much room to spare.

Exactly half an hour after Dean had left the bathing chamber, Castiel enters the hotel lobby, his new possessions packed in the saddlebags Dean had also provided.  He finds Dean there, clean shaven and hair damp from a basin bath.

“Sam’s going to meet us at the boarding house,” Dean says without bothering with pleasantries.  He doesn’t meet Castiel’s eyes, probably still uncomfortable with what he’d accidentally revealed about himself earlier.  He turns on a heel and leads the way outside with long strides.

As Castiel follows him out of the hotel, a man quickly steps between them.  He’s tall, wearing a black coat, hat, and pants turned gray by layers of dust.  His skin is also dark, which makes his bloodshot eyes stand out, and they burn with fanatical fury.  “Hold it right there, Winchester.  I’m taking you in.”


	18. Chapter 18

Dean goes still, hand poised over his holstered gun.  His eyes dart around, looking for other gunmen while he curses himself internally for letting his guard down enough to let someone get the jump on him.

“Hey, Gordon,” he says with false friendliness.  “Been a long time.”

His eyes continue to flit up and down the street, now looking for signs of Sam.  It’s a relief when he finds no sign of him.  He hopes that if Sam catches wind of what’s happening, he takes off for safety rather than playing hero, but he also knows that’s unlikely.  He’s going to have to get himself out of this first.  

“Easy there, Dean-o,” Gordon drawls, making Dean’s shoulders tense at the hated nickname.  There’s a warning click of a hammer being pulled back.  “Not even _you_ can outdraw a gun at your back.”

Well, he can certainly try.

Castiel hears the strange man’s warning and sees the subtle tensing of Dean’s arms and the shift of his weight onto the balls of his feet.  He knows what’s coming next, and if he doesn’t do something quick, this can only end badly.

“Dean, stop,” he says as he steps around the stranger and puts himself between the two men.  He has no idea whether acting as Dean’s shield will stop the man from pulling the trigger, but since they’re out in the open with many potential witnesses, he gambles on not getting shot right away.

Putting on a cold mask of authority, he addresses the stranger.  “Is there a problem?”

The man’s eyes flit over Castiel, taking his measure, maybe looking for a badge.  “Not anymore,” he growls, obviously not seeing Castiel as a threat.  “Step aside and let me go about my business here.”  He reaches out to shove Castiel out of the way.

Castiel carefully sidesteps his grasp.  “And what business might that be?” he asks calmly.

After dismissing Castiel, the man’s eyes had fastened on Dean’s back, but now they swing back, brimming with contempt.  “Dean Winchester is a wanted man, and I’m taking him in for the reward.”

Since Castiel also sees no sign of a badge, he assumes the man must be a bounty hunter.  He’ll need to proceed with caution, or he’ll get himself and Dean both shot.  This man seems like the type to shoot first and collect rewards later.

“I see,” he says politely.  “Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir.  I too have business with Mr. Winchester.  Official business, and he’s currently in my custody.”

Behind him, Dean grunts with displeasure.  “Cas, don’t.”

The bounty hunter blinks at Castiel.  “You’re what now?”

“On official business,” Castiel repeats.  “I’m with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.  This man is in my custody, which you can verify with Marshal Earp in Tombstone.  So if you’re kindly holster your weapon, we can all continue going about our business.”

It’s a risk, but Castiel turns his back to the man with the intent to leave.  He’s careful to keep himself between Dean and the bounty hunter.  With a light touch to Dean’s back, he encourages him to step down off the boardwalk.  Dean casts a wary glance over his shoulder, and Castiel meets his eyes with a silent warning not to cause a scene.

They don’t get far before he hears the distinctive sound of more guns being cocked from more than one direction.

“I said hold it right there!” the bounty hunter thunders from behind them.

“Nice try,” Dean mutters.  “Now we do it my way.”  His hand starts to drop toward his pistol.

Castiel stops him with a touch.  “No!  We’ll never make it.  He’s got backup, and I’m no fast gun.  I don’t know about you, but this isn’t how I’d like to die.”

“Cleaner than some options.” His back is still to Castiel, but he conveys an eyeroll with his tone.

“Ideally I’d prefer to live to an old age and choke on a chicken bone, rather than taking a bullet.  Now shut up and keep your hand away from your gun.”

Dean turns his head enough to see if Cas looks like the raving lunatic he sounds like.  Nope, just a handsome asshole who’s dead set on getting himself killed today.  “What the hell are you going to do?”

“Keep us both alive,” Cas says firmly, and hell if Dean doesn’t half believe him with that kind of conviction.

But Cas has no idea who he’s dealing with, and Dean doesn’t exactly have the luxury of time to explain it to him.  Not with Gordon still pointing that damn gun at them--at _Cas_ now.  “Well good luck with that,” he drawls.  “Gordon’s got plans for me.”

“So do I,” Cas growls.

Despite the looming danger, Dean can’t stop a grin spreading across his face.  “My my… and I thought you didn’t care.”

Cas glares at him.  “Let me handle this.”

Before he can comment further, Cas spins around to face Gordon with a devastating smile on his face.  “Is there something else?”

Gordon’s eyes narrow dangerously.  “There sure as hell is.  You take just one more step and my men will shoot.  Don’t make no difference to me whether Winchester hangs or we settle it here.  Either way, I’ll get my reward.”

 _And Sam hunting him down for the rest of his short life_ , Dean thinks.  Which is probably what Gordon really wants, since it’s Sam that he’s been after for so long.  Dean really should have killed the man years ago.

“And as for you,” Gordon continues, “before you try anything, I suggest you have a look around.”

Castiel follows his outstretched hand to a man with a wide brimmed hat stepping out of the shadows.  He has a rifle cradled in his hands and it’s pointed at the space between him and Dean.  The bounty hunter--Gordon--gestures again in the other direction.  Castiel turns to see a second gunman leaning against a post, his hand resting warily on a holstered colt.  He spits a stream of tobacco spittle into the dirt by his feet, then grins and tips his hat in a mockery of polite greeting.

“My men,” Gordon says with a dangerous smile.  “Now I don’t really give a shit who you are, but Dean’s a wanted man and I’m taking him in for safe keeping until a federal marshal gets here.”

Dean recognizes Roy and Walt and curses under his breath.  Three against two would be easy odds with Sam at his side, but even though Cas had proven himself to be damn good with a gun, Dean believes him when he says he’s not prepared for an actual gunfight.  He inches his hand further away from his gun.  Gordon’s lackeys are likely to shoot to kill at the the drop of a hat, and he doesn’t want to give them a reason to pull those triggers.

Gordon gets in Cas’ face.  “I don’t know anything about _official business_ ,” he sneers, “but just in case you are who you say you are, you better show me paperwork of some kind and we’ll talk about it.  Otherwise don’t go interfering, or I’ll have you dragged into jail too.  If you’re with Winchester, I’m sure I can find something on ya.”

He shoves past Cas and jams the barrel of his gun into Dean’s back.  “Now you move real nice and easy, Winchester.  One wrong move and it all ends real quick, right here.”

Dean raises his hands above his shoulders.  No matter how hard his mind races for a solution to this predicament, there’s none to be found at the moment.  He’ll have to go along with things until Cas can bring his release papers to the sheriff.

And hope that Gordon will let him out of his sight.  The man usually follows the law, but when it comes to finding Sam, he’s tenacious and ruthless.

“I don’t plan on giving you any trouble,” he says.

Gordon snorts.  “You’re a shit liar, Dean-o.”

“Still a better shot though,” Dean challenges cheerfully.  “Keep calling me that, and I’ll be happy to give you a demonstration.”

The gun digs harder into his flesh.  “I ain’t no dumbass kid with a gun looking for glory,” Gordon growls.  “Now let’s get you to the jail.  Remember, nice and easy.”

As they start across the street, Castiel tries to follow, but he’s stopped by one of Gordon’s men.  

“Dean Winchester’s dangerous,” he says.  “You don’t want to get tangled up in this.”

Castiel fixes the man with a cold stare.  “ _I’m_ dangerous,” he says calmly, even if he feels anything but.

The man shrinks away slightly, but when his partner joins him, his spine straightens again.  “Just stay out of the way,” he warns.

Both men block his way as their leader shoves Dean down the street in the direction of the jailhouse.  Castiel stays where he is until the gunmen seem to believe that he’s not going to cause any trouble.  Then they turn as a unit and follow Gordon and Dean.

Castiel stands in the dusty street and wonders what the hell he’s going to do now.  The papers he needs to guarantee Dean’s release are lost in the mountains, and he has no way to prove who he is.  And he can’t exactly reach out to the Pinkerton offices for help.  They know nothing of this case, or his whereabouts.

Personal quests for vengeance are frowned on by the agency, and he didn’t exactly get permission for everything he’s done in his years hunting down Emmanuel’s killers.  His superiors have been pleased with the criminals he’s brought to justice, but he doubts they’d approve of the lengths he’s gone to behind their backs.

Talking the territorial governor into giving the Winchester brothers amnesty had also been risky, and he doesn’t want to push his luck by reaching out to him for help either.  He’d assured the governor that he’d have everything under control.

If Castiel asks for assistance before Alistair is caught, the governor might contact the Pinkerton offices himself.  And that could ruin his plans _and_ get Dean and Sam killed.

He needs to find Sam, but he doesn’t want to lead the bounty hunters to him.  Trying to appear casual, Castiel returns to the hotel, then ducks out back and slips down an alley.  Taking a longer route, he manages to reach the stables without using the main road through town.  

Just as he’s about to round a corner to the stable’s back entrance, a hand clamps down over his mouth, and he’s pulled deeper into the shadows.

“It’s me,” Sam warns as he cautiously releases Castiel.

He whirls to face Sam.  “Dean has been arrested!”

Sam nods.  “I saw.  And Dean’s in serious danger.  We have to get him out of there quick.”

“Why?  Do you think they’ll hang him?”  Castiel goes cold.  A few weeks ago, his only concern would have been losing a lead on Alistair, but now his gut churns with anxiety for a man who has become, at the very least, his friend.

“The sheriff might want to,” Sam says.  “But it’s Gordon we have to worry about.”

“He’s a bounty hunter, isn’t he?” Castiel wonders how he might be more dangerous than an execution-happy sheriff.  Then he remembers that some wanted posters include the phrase “Dead or Alive”.

“He’s a Hunter, like me and Dean,” Sam says.  “He’ll collect bounties if he can, but that’s not his primary concern.”

Castiel frowns.  “They why is he after Dean?”

Sam’s face closes off.  Castiel is used to seeing Dean put on a mask over his emotions, but usually Sam is friendly and open with him.  It’s unsettling, and his churning anxiety over Dean’s fate twists tighter in his gut.

“He’s after me,” Sam says flatly.  “Dean is just bait.  But that doesn’t make Gordon any less likely to kill him if he thinks it’ll draw me out easier.  “We have to get Dean out of jail as soon as possible.”

There are so many questions Castiel wants to ask, but he agrees that time is of the essence.  He can table his curiosity until a more appropriate time.  But there’s a huge problem with the current situation.

“Sam, I don’t have your amnesty papers anymore.  I had to leave them behind to escape the Skinwalkers.”  Sam curses and Castiel shares the sentiment wholeheartedly.  “We have to find another way to get him out of there.”

Sam runs his fingers through his hair with agitation.  It falls back in his face, and his worried expression makes him look young and afraid.  “Shit.  That’s… that’s not good.”

It definitely is not.

Castiel sighs and sends up a prayer that what he’s about to suggest doesn’t blow up in his face and make things worse.  “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he murmurs.

Sam looks at him with a spark of hope.  “What are you thinking?”

“That we’ll be lucky to pull this off.”

His dire words only make Sam grin.  “Sounds like a good plan.  Tell me more.”

* * *

Dean leans against the adobe wall at the back of his cell.  Heat simmers beyond it, and the sun creates long shadows as it slips toward the western horizon.  

Gordon had handed him over to the sheriff with dire warnings about keeping Dean under surveillance, and mostly tall tales about how dangerous he and his brother are.  Then he’d come back to Dean’s cell and beamed at him with triumph.

“Only half of that shit you told ‘em is true,” Dean says.  

“Gotta make sure he really understands the importance of keeping you in here,” Gordon says with a shrug.  Then he bares his teeth in the semblance of a grin.  “Of course, he’s extra motivated now that I’ve told him he can keep the reward money for you once I get Sam.”

Dean wants to curse up a storm, but he remains stoic.  Gordon isn’t going to see him cowed, if that’s what he’s looking for.  “Generous of you,” he says.

Gordon dips his head in a regal nod.  “Sheriff thinks so too.”

“What if he decides to fleece you and take the reward money for both of us?” Dean asks conversationally.  Every minute he can keep Gordon in here talking to him is is time Sam can use to escape.  

And he’d damn well better.  If he gets them both killed by trying to get him out of jail, Dean’s going to kick his ass to Hell and back in the afterlife.

Gordon shrugs.  “I ain’t after the money.  As long as Sam’s dead, I still win.”

“I should have killed you,” Dean growls, unable to bottle up his anger any longer.

“Yeah.  You really should have.”  Gordon tips his hat, and walks away.  Roy and Walt cast Dean a wary look and follow him out of the sheriff’s office.

The morning slips into full daylight, and then the afternoon wanes into evening with no changes.  Roy or Walt check in every now and then, but otherwise Dean is left to rot in his cell.

Voices from the outer office occasionally reach him, but mostly he doesn’t pay attention.  Until one conversation catches his attention simply because he’s tired of thinking in circles about how the hell he’s going to escape this mess.

“Do you think the sheriff will keep him till the marshal gets here with the reward money?” a deputy asks.

“Too much trouble,” another deputy replies.  There’s a distinctive sound of a tobacco stream hitting a spittoon.  “My guess is the prisoner will be shot _trying to escape_.  Don’t make no difference if he’s dead or alive.  And if he plays things right, he’ll get the reward for both brothers instead of that bounty hunter.”

There’s obvious disgust in his voice, and Dean thinks the man shouldn’t disregard Gordon for being a black man.  That attitude could get him a shallow grave in the desert.

“You think the sheriff’ll kill him?” the first deputy asks incredulously.

“He’ll do what’s necessary for the reward,” the other man explains.

Great.  Now Dean has to worry about dodging Gordon and his goons _and_ a greedy, yellow-belly sheriff.  That’s going to complicate matters even more than they are.  He’d been hoping to get at least some level of protection from the sheriff, but he can’t count on that anymore.

Cas hasn’t shown up either.  Dean hopes that means that he and Sam have taken off for safety and not that he’s decided Dean’s too much trouble and left him to hang.  

He’s going to have to get himself out of this mess on his own.  

A chair creaks in the outer office and the first deputy speaks uneasily.  “That’s Dean Winchester in there.  They say he’s got more lives than a cat.”

Dean snorts softly.  If only they knew.

“Ain’t no one been able to kill him, and some of the best have tried.  And his brother’s out there too.”

“So?  He’s locked up and ain’t got a gun.”

“I still don’t like it,” the first deputy argues.  “Them brothers have a reputation for not leaving nobody alive that they go up against.”

Smart man.  Dean hopes he doesn’t have to kill him.  He might actually make a good lawman.

“His brother ain’t here, and without a gun he ain’t goin’ up against nobody,” the other deputy sneers.  “Now deal them cards so I can beat your pants off again.  By the time we’re done, you’re gonna owe me your portion of the reward.”

Dean pushes up from his seat on the bench and paces his small cell like a caged animal.  The makings of a plan start coming together, and it’s damn risky and involves killing people he’d rather not, but it’s all he’s got.  

When the sun dips below the horizon and his cell is cast into mostly shadows, he moves into the farthest corner, where he’s least likely to be seen by anyone coming to check on him.  He loosens the ties of his boots, and then twists the leather thongs together, creating a strong, lethal strap.  Wrapping the ends around his hands, he jerks the leather taught.  One good yank could break a man’s neck.

He rolls the thong into a tight ball and slips it inside his shirt sleeve.  Then he works at the inside seam of his left boot.  After a few minutes a gleaming, sharp tip protrudes from a narrow slit.  He pulls the blade from the seam, and with another piece of leather wraps one end to make a handle. 

These are just two of the tricks he’d learned to keep himself alive.  In Tombstone, Virgil was cautious and had Dean and Sam both carefully searched for hidden weapons.  But here the sheriff and his deputies are lax and stupid, and Gordon and his men are too focused on finding Sam to remember why he’s a more deadly hunter than they are.  Only Dean’s guns, and the more obviously hidden weapons had been removed before they’d thrown him in the cell and locked the door.

There’s still a very slim chance that Cas might be able to get him out, but he’s had a whole day to do so and Dean hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him.  And he’d learned a long time ago, not to rely on anyone else but himself.  A man lived a helluva lot longer that way.

Under the cover of growing darkness he tries the bars at the window.  They hold fast.  He concentrates on the movements and conversations of the deputies, trying to find a pattern that might provide him an opportunity for escape.

The deputies alternate duties standing watch, and Roy and Walt still continue to check in.  As the night wears on, they all doze.  The sheriff shows up sometime around midnight, kicking them all awake.  Then he saunters back through the heavy wood doors to the cells.  He smells like sweat, smoke, cheap whiskey, and even cheaper whores.

“I already sent word about that reward money,” he informs Dean through the barred gate.  “I’m goin’ to have me a fine piece of change for turnin’ in your hide.”

The greedy gleam in his eyes is edged with something dangerous.  Dean knows if this man has his way he won’t make it out of this cell alive.

“Yessir, five thousand dollars,” the sheriff says, low and threateningly.  “Double that, when that bounty hunter brings me your brother.”  The sheriff laughs and then saunters back out to the office and collapses across a bed in the corner.

Dean is sure the man has no intention of turning him over to to anyone alive.  But at least he knows that the idiot won’t survive Gordon’s wrath long enough to enjoy his reward money.

* * *

Shadows fall across the empty streets of Las Cruces as dawn breaks over the eastern horizon.  Castiel peeks out from an alley near the jail and looks toward the far end of town from the jail.  He sees the telltale curl of smoke thread it’s way out of the doors of the livery stable.

Sam had promised that no one would get hurt.  He’d make sure the animals could escape and that there wouldn’t be anyone inside.  Castiel doesn’t know how he’s going to pull that off without getting caught, but Sam had smiled, shook a little vial of powder, and murmured something about upset bowels.

He’d assured Castiel he would create a diversion.  He doesn’t question Sam’s methods, and he trusts Sam to not hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it.

A small Mexican boy struggling under the weight of a basket of vegetables passes by, and Castiel stops him.  “The stables on fire,” he calls, pointing down the street.

The boy looks toward the stables and his dark eyes widen when he sees the first flames licking at the frame of the open door.

“Get the sheriff!” Castiel urges.

The boy drops his basket, scattering a myriad of vegetables in the dirt.  With his wide-brimmed sombrero clasped to his head, he runs for the sheriff’s office.  His voice rings out through the town, in a mixture of English and Spanish.  Slowly people start emerging from homes and businesses, their eyes turning to the growing column of smoke coming from the stables.  Horses burst through the open doors, hooves pounding in the dusty street as they escape.

The sheriff and his deputies stagger from the jailhouse, buckling on gunbelts and swearing in confusion.  Castiel smiles and ducks back into the alley to mount his horse.

Dean hears the commotion in the sheriff’s office.  There’s a wild scrambling as booted feet thump across hard wood, followed by a mixture of cursing and confused questions.  The door gets thrown open, the slam echoing all the way back to the cells.  There’s a great deal of shouting--including from Roy and Walt, who’d come back to the jailhouse in the early hours of the morning--and then cries of _fire!_

Through the small, barred opening in the gate that separates the cells from the rest of the jailhouse, Dean sees men running run into the street, leaving silence in their wake.  A frantic scratching noise at the barred window of the cell brings Dean around abruptly.  

Wary of any plans the sheriff might have for killing him, Dean crouches down and pulls his knife from his boot.  He watches the window, knife clutched firmly.

A long, sinuous form slips through the window, then slowly snakes down the wall.  A rope?

“Dean!  Are you going to help me with this, or do you want to stay in that cell?”

The familiar voice spurs him into motion.  He shoves the cot over to the window and climbs atop it so he can get a proper look outside.

Cas grins up at him from astride his horse.  “I thought you could use some assistance.”

“You sure took your sweet time about it,” Dean grumbles.

The grin disappears.  “There were a few details to work out.”

Dean watches as Cas knots the other end of the rope around the pommel of his saddle.  “Sheriff didn’t want to accept your official business either, huh?”

Cas doesn’t look up from cinching the knot tight.  “I believe the sheriff has other plans.  And even if he let you go, Sam explained that Gordon would not.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Besides,” Cas explains as he dismounts and steps closer to the back wall of the jailhouse.  “All my papers, along with the signed release from Marshal Earp, are in the bags you made me leave behind in the mountains.”

Dean winces.  That would explain why Cas hadn’t even tried to storm in and get him released through official channels.  He leans against the barred window.  “In other words, it’s my fault I’m in here.”

Cas shakes his head and flashes Dean a smile that borders on teasing.  “I doubt a few papers would have helped in this situation.  You seem to bring out the killing instinct in people.  You really should try to do something about that.”

Dean snorts and shares a grin with Cas.  The Pinkerton makes a very fetching sight with the first light of day at his back, sunlight tipping his dark hair with flecks of bronze.  

He wears the clothing Dean purchased for him the previous morning.  The shirt is a size too big across his shoulders, and he has the sleeves rolled up to expose his tanned forearms.  He’d left several buttons open at the front, and it gapes open to reveal his collarbone and just a hint of dark chest hair.  

The pants fit perfectly though, hugging his thick thighs and making Dean eager to see him from behind.  The boots, like his own--purchased from a young indian woman--are snug around his calves, and the leather molds around his feet.  

Having already gained an appreciable respect for how stubborn Cas is, Dean wouldn’t have taken any bets that he’d wear the clothes since he hadn’t picked them out himself.  But he had, and a warm possessive glow builds in Dean’s chest.  He’d be damned if Cas isn’t one of the most desirable men Dean’d ever laid eyes on.

He’s suddenly and intensely curious about what Cas would look without the boots, the pants, and the shirt.  Only his thickly muscled body, naked and hot, clinging to Dean as they come together.

In an attempt to bring his wayward thoughts to heel, he refocuses on the real Cas standing in the dirt below him.  “Are you going to get me out of here, or are you going to stand there talking about it till the sheriff or Gordon and his cronies get back?”

Castiel’s head snaps up at the unexpected edge in Dean’s voice, and his eyes narrow with ire.  He hasn’t slept, hasn’t been able to eat anything the day before or last night.  His patience has worn thin, and the last thing he wants is an argument with Dean.  Still, leaving him in the cell is tempting.  It would serve the arrogant bastard right.

“I could leave and not bother with all this,” he warns.

“I have no intention of dying, Cas, or letting that lazy, stupid sheriff collect that reward money,” Dean says.  “One way or the other, I’ll get out of here.”

“If you could, you would have already,” Castiel points out as he returns to his horse and pulls himself up into the saddle.  He turns to meet Dean’s disgruntled gaze, and feels a stab of triumph for winning that little clash of wills.  “Now tie your end of the rope around those bars.  We don’t have much time before someone comes back to check on you.”  He grins wickedly.  “Unless, of course, you’d rather come up with some other idea.”

Dean frowns, but starts tying the rope around the bars, winding it through them a few times before knotting it.  “Are you sure this will work?  Do you know what you’re doing?”

Cas gives him a long look over his shoulder as he turns his horse to face away from the jailhouse.  “In theory.”

Dean’s eyes narrow.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well it should be simple.  A rope, a horse, and the window pops out.  But there are a lot of variable factors.”

“What variable factors?”

Cas begins to list the possibilities of what might go wrong.  “The strength of the rope, the strength of those bars, how well the jail was constructed, and the horse.”

Dean stares out through the bars, wondering how much faith he’s willing to put in Cas’ plan.  They have one chance at this, and if it doesn’t work he’ll be forced to take matters into his own hands.

He’d feel much better about this if they had help.  “Where’s Sam?”

“He’ll meet us outside of town,” Cas assures him.  “Where he’ll be safe from Gordon and the sheriff for now.”

As much as he’d like to have Sam here to help, Dean’s glad that Cas talked him into heading for safety first.  He just has to put his trust in Cas that this crazy plan will work.  He checks the bars at the edges of the window for any telltale signs of looseness.  They hold tight, which is not reassuring, but the rope seems sturdy and the knot is secure.  

He gives Cas a signal that everything is ready, and then jumps away from the window.

The rope goes taught around the iron bars.  Beyond, he hears scuffling and scraping sounds as Cas’ horse strains against the pull of the rope.  The bars hold, then groan.

Then all hell breaks loose.

The window jerks loose as the adobe around it crumbles.  Then the entire back wall of the jailhouse collapses.

Dean coughs and waves dust away from his face.  He’s still struggling to see when he hears a commotion from the front of the jailhouse.  He hears Gordon shout for Roy and Walt.

“Come on!” Cas shouts.

There’s a gunshot behind Dean and he abruptly turns back to face the inner part of the jail.  “Cas, get out of here!”

“What are you doing?  Dean, I’m not leaving you!”

“Get my horse!” Dean yells over his shoulder as he makes his way back into the jailhouse.

From the street Castiel hears shouts, the voices steadily growing closer.  He only has the Colt, and even though he’d been able to take out the slow-moving undead miners, he’s not as certain of his effectiveness against living men.  And he’d much rather not kill anyone at all.

Cursing softly he squints through the dust cloud left by the collapsed wall.  Where is Dean?

Knowing that time is running out by the increasing number of voices coming toward the jail, Castiel follows Dean’s last order and hurries to the alley where he’d hidden Dean’s Appaloosa.  He quickly returns with both horses, but there’s still no sign of Dean.

Another gunshot comes from inside the jail, and Castiel’s worry begins to build into a panic.  Then he catches sight of Dean crawling over the pile of adobe bricks that had once been the back wall of the jailhouse.  When he’s past the rubble, he runs toward CAs and the horses.

He wipes his hand on his pants, leaving a smear of blood on the cloth encasing his thigh.  His face is set in hard lines, and his eyes dart away from Castiel’s as he grabs the Appaloosa’s reins.

“My god, are you hurt?”

Wordlessly Dean swings into the saddle and whirls the horse around.  

Castiel catches his arm.  “Dean?

He doesn’t look at Castiel, but says “Unless you want to meet up with the sheriff and his deputies, I suggest we ride out of here now.  Where are we meeting Sam?”

“Just over that rise.”

Without another word, Dean spurs the Appaloosa hard toward the distance rise on the far south end of town.  Castiel quickly urges his gelding into a run to catch up with him.

They pull the horses to a stop at the top of the rise, and jerk around in tandem at the sound of an approaching rider.  Relief pours through Castiel when he sees that it’s Sam.  Then he realizes that Sam came from the direction of the town, and not where he said he’d be hiding.

Sam pulls up beside them and holds out a bundle of weapons to Dean.  “Figured you might need these.”

Dean nods his appreciation as he buckles on his gun, and slips his rifle into his saddle scabbard.

Castiel recognizes the weapons as Dean’s, and not new weapons.  “When did you get those?” 

Sam gives him a crooked grin.  “You weren’t the only one using the distraction to your advantage.”   He glances back at the town, which is clearly in uproar from the fire and the collapsed wall of the jail cell.  “That sure is one damn big mess.  We better get the hell out of here before they go blaming us for it.”  And then he turns his horse and sends it in a full run down the back of the rise, heading south toward Mexico.

When Dean turns the Appaloosa to follow, Castiel stops him.  “Are you all right?”

He twists around in his saddle, meeting Castiel’s gaze for the first time.  His eyes are cold, ruthless.  “Don’t worry about me,” he replies gruffly and tries to pull away.

“But you’re bleeding.  If it’s serious-”

Dean’s voice cuts like shards of ice.  “I’m not hurt.”

Castiel reaches out to touch his arm.  “But the blood..”

“It’s not mine.”

But there had been gunshots, and Dean didn’t have a gun.  Castiel’s confused eyes fall to Dean’s bloody hand, and for the first time he sees the crude knife clutched in Dean’s hand.  Dean leans down and shoves the knife into his boot, and then meets Castiel’s startled gaze with his cold one.

“It’s not _my_ blood,” he repeats.

This time when Dean follows Sam, Cas lets him go.  He nudges his horse into a run, and they ride hard toward Mexico.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some Spanish in here, and I apologize to native speakers if it sounds stiff. It's been 20 years since I took classes, and Google Translate is only so helpful.

They ride hard for several hours, but Dean doesn’t call for a break until he’s sure they’ve got a marginal lead on any posse the sheriff gathers to come after them.  And he’s certain that greedy bastard will.  If he’s willing to kill his prisoner’s for the reward, there’s no way he’ll let Dean just ride away.

Especially now that Dean has another layer of blood on his hands.

If he could, Dean would keep them moving, but even he’s starting to feel like he’s pushed past the limits of his endurance.  Baby isn’t lagging yet, but he knows she will if he keeps her going at this pace.  They stop at a spring where they can water and rest the horses.  The animals are breathing hard, their heads hanging low and already turning toward the scent of fresh water.  

Sam sighs as he dismounts, but Dean only sees understanding when their eyes meet.  Either that, or Sam’s too tired to bitch at him.  Either way, Dean’ll take the reprieve.  Especially because he can tell Sam is curious about the blood.  His eyes flick down to the smear on Dean’s pants, but he doesn’t comment.  He has questions, but he knows they’ll need to put more distance between them and the Las Cruces sheriff before they can take time to talk about it.

Cas apparently doesn’t feel the same.  “Dean? Whose blood is that?”

Ignoring him for the moment, Dean leads Baby to the water’s edge.  She plunges her nose in, and her thirsty slurping joins the noises Sam’s horse is making.  “Take care of your horse, Cas.”

The brusque order puts Castiel’s hackles up, but he calms again almost immediately.  Dean is right that the horses need to come before sating his curiosity.  He leads his horse to the water and allows him to drink, but his attention is still centered on Dean.

Castiel’s muscles ache.  If he’d thought the ride from Tucson was hard, the hours since they’d left Las Cruces were even more grueling.  He’s surprised his legs hold him up now that he’s out of the saddle.

He lets the gelding drink, but pulls him away from the water when Sam and Dean do.  Letting them drink too much would be just as dangerous as having no water at all.  

His eyes follow Dean as he leads the Appaloosa to a nearby tree and ties her to a branch, leaving just enough lead for her to crop grass.  The rusty stain of dried blood on Dean’s clothing makes Castiel’s gut twist with a confusing mix of worry over who it came from, what Dean did, and relief that it isn’t Dean’s.  

The relief is stronger, but his curiosity comes as a close second.  He wonders at how he’s changed so much in his short time with the Winchesters that worry over whoever the blood came from is last in his mind.

Dean holds himself tightly, afraid he’ll lash out if Cas decides to pry.  The Pinkerton’s gaze is heavy on his shoulders, and the dried blood still clinging to the cracks of his knuckles and under his nails itches.  He wants to wash it away, but doing so will draw more attention to it.

Not that he can ever wash away all the blood he’s spilled.  His hands will never truly be clean.

He can also feel concern radiating from his brother, and wonders if he was wrong earlier in his assessment that Sam is smart enough to wait until they’re more sure of their safety.  Or at least to wait until Dean’s foul mood ebbs.  Dean wonders which man will approach him first.

Probably Cas.  Sam is more experienced at knowing when to let things lie.

Footsteps approach, and from the corner of his eye, Dean can see the new boots he’d bought for Cas.  Looks like he was right about Sam having a better sense of self preservation.

“Are you all right?”

When Dean doesn’t answer right away, Castiel reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder.  It’s a mistake.  Dean spins around so fast that Castiel gasps and takes a step back.  It’s as far as he gets because Dean’s hand shoots out, fast as a snake strike, and wraps tightly around Castiel’s wrist.

He recovers quickly from his shock.  Dean’s speed is a reminder of how dangerous he is, but Castiel knows he has nothing to fear from the outlaw.  Dean’s eyes are cold and hard with a warning that Castiel is too reckless to heed.  But weariness also reflects back from their green depths.  

“Dean.”  It’s spoken softly.  A gentle reprimand, and a reminder that they are not enemies.

Something flickers in Dean’s eyes, maybe regret, but then his expression hardens into the cold mask of rage that reminds Castiel of the day he’d been walked off the gallows in Tombstone.  He looks like a killer, with literal blood drying on his hands.

His grip around Castiel’s wrist tightens to the point of pain, until he lets go with a thrust that drives Castiel back another step.  When Castiel rubs his abused wrist, the cold mask slips again, and he looks like he’s not sure if he want to apologize or commit further violence.

Castiel waits, trusting.  Something he would not have expected to feel for Dean only a matter of days ago.

Whatever internal struggle Dean is facing ends, and he scoffs with irritation.  He flaps a hand at Castiel’s gelding.  “See to your horse.”

He doesn't listen, stepping close again.  “It’s you I’m concerned about.”

Cas’ tone is calm and reasonable, as if he’s not upset that Dean might have killed someone.  It sparks the short fuse on Dean’s temper.  Baby snorts and tosses her head when Dean jerks around and closes the last space between him and Cas.  His fingers curl in the Pinkerton’s shirt, yanking him forward until their noses almost touch.

Finally, he sees a flash of fear.

It’s not as satisfying as he expected.

From the corner of his eye he sees Sam shuffle forward as if he wants to protect Cas, and Dean puts up a hand, motioning for him to stay out of it.  “I did what was necessary,” he growls, low and dangerous.  “Gordon is a Hunter and he’s after _us._   With or without a pardon, he was gunning for us and the only way to keep him from killing us--” killing Sam, _protect Sammy!_ “--was to put him in the ground first.”

He doesn’t even know why he’s defending himself.  Cas isn’t accusing him of anything.  Isn’t calling him a murderer, or lecturing him on the sanctity of life.  

Cas swallows, and his eyes are still wide and dark.  But his voice remains calm.  “I understand.”

“Do you?” Dean sneers.  “He’s human, but I killed him in cold blood.  That’s what you wanted from me right?  A cold blooded killer to hunt down another cold blooded killer.”

A demon to hunt down another demon.

The dry blood on his hands burns.

Castiel stares into the inferno of Dean’s rage.  _He feels guilty_ , he realizes.

But why?  Castiel knows that sometimes it’s necessary to kill in self defense.  He’s never needed to, at least not a human, and he truly hopes it will never become necessary for him to do so.  But he’s prepared to do it.  He has been since he’d set out to find Emmanuel’s killer.  

Dean waits for Cas’ expression to twist into disgust, hatred, loathing.  Even pity would be expected.  But Cas continues to gaze at him like Dean’s soul isn’t stained and broken.

“No,” Cas says.  His hands come up to wrap around Dean’s wrist.  Not to pull free or attempt escape.  Just a gentle reminder of how Dean’s grip is twisting Cas’ collar into his throat.  “That is not who you are.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell Cas everything.  About all the grisly deaths at his hands.  The human vessels of demons that he killed along with the demon inside them, or the months he spent with Alistair and the innocent victims that had come under his knives.  

He almost tells him about Alistair’s proud whispers in his ear.  That he _has promise_. That there’s a darkness in him that the demon wants to train and cultivate.  

That sometimes he feels that darkness squirming and struggling inside him, and he’s afraid that he won’t be able to keep it contained forever.

And Cas has the nerve to look at him like he’ll forgive any sin Dean confesses to him.  Like he’s a man, and not half monster already.

He wonders if Cas would still be so understanding if Dean could show him just how damaged he is.  If he could find the right words to get through his thick skull that Dean is past saving, that he’s poison.  If his fear and distrust would come back if he knew.

Dean doesn’t want that.  He wants Cas to keep looking at him like he is right now.

Shame twists in his gut, because he’s already given up.  He’s going to take every bit of kindness he can get until Cas figures out that Dean doesn’t deserve it.  That’ll probably add another black mark to his soul, but what’s one more at this point?  He’s already damned.

Resisting the urge to physically push Cas away, Dean releases his shirt.  Cas’ fingers are slow to drop away from his wrist, and Dean misses his touch immediately.

Over Cas’ shoulder, Sam is watching the drama unfold.  Great, now he’s got two people looking at him like kicked dogs.  Ignoring Sam is second nature, but he doesn’t know how he’ll deal with a double dose of compassion he doesn’t deserve.

“Gordon’s really dead?” Sam asks, cutting through the tension that had built up between Dean and Cas.

Dean lifts his hands, showing the blood that he hasn’t washed away yet.  Suddenly disgusted, Dean returns to the water and plunges his hands in, scrubbing them with handfuls of wet sand.  “If he survives a gut wound like that, then we’re in trouble.”

There’s silence until Dean lifts his head and meets his brother’s gaze.  The soft concern is gone, replaced with cold resolve.  “Good,” Sam says with a firm nod.

Dean’s mouth ticks up on one side.  Sam is normally the first to defend the sanctity of life, but he hates Gordon as fiercely as the other hunter hated him.  He has no doubt that Sam would have put a knife in Gordon if Dean hadn’t gotten him first.

He’ll gladly take on that responsibility so Sam doesn’t have to.

“What are the chances that we don’t have a posse on our tail?” Sam asks as he tends to his horse, checking the saddle cinch.

Dean finishes rinsing his hands--as clean as they’ll ever get--and stands.  “Slim,” he answers, and Sam’s curt nod isn’t surprised.  He swings his attention back to Cas, who has finally stopped looking at Dean like he’s fragile and has moved to check his own horse over.  

Sunlight catches on the Colt strapped to Cas’ hip, making the wood handle gleam.  It makes Dean angry again.  They were lucky to get out of Las Cruces alive, even without getting into a gunfight in the streets.  But if Gordon had decided to shoot first instead of using Dean as bait for Sam, they very well could have been killed.  Cas is a marksman, no doubt, but is he fast enough for Dean to count on him in a fight where a quick draw can mean the difference between life and death?

“Come over here, Cas.”

The Pinkerton looks up at him with a mixture of curiosity, and the wariness Dean had been looking for earlier.  But he obeys the order without question.  Once he’s close, Dean grabs him by the shoulders and situates him so that he’s facing away from the horses.  

“Use that as a target.”  Dean gestures at a tall saguaro cactus about fifty feet away.  “Draw quickly and shoot.  I want to see how fast you are.”

Castiel eyes Dean, wondering what the point of this exercise is.  But it’s a simple enough request.  He widens his stance a few inches, sights his target, draws, shoots.

And misses.  

“Well shit,” Dean says.  “Shoot it without drawing first.”

Castiel does as he’s told, hitting the cactus at middle height and right in the center of its trunk.  When Dean tells him to shoot other targets, he follows along, hitting everything Dean points out to him, no matter how quickly he shouts out commands.

“Well at least when the gun is out already, you aren’t totally useless,” Dean says with a sigh.

Castiel bristles at first, but there’s no heat behind Dean’s words.  He’s squinting into the distance, face set in lines of contemplation.  So Castiel decides to see what this is all about.  He can’t resist one small jab though.  “Don’t tempt me to shoot you instead.  Again.”

That actually earns him a small smile.  “I’ll take my chances,” Dean says dryly.  Sam snorts, and moves to the water to refill all their canteens while Dean teaches Cas whatever lesson he has planned.  Apparently he’s not too worried about Dean ending up with new holes in his hide either.

“Reload, let’s try again,” Dean says.  After Castiel has obeyed, he adds “holster it.”

Castiel reholsters the gun and waits for further instruction.  Dean steps up next to him, and in a move almost too fast to follow, he draws and shoots.  He empties all six chambers in quick succession, hitting every target that Castiel had put a bullet in already.  If Castiel didn’t know better, he would expect some sort of magic is enhancing his speed.  

Dean reloads his gun, and puts it back in the holster.  “Don’t worry about speed yet,” he says.  “It’s not important at this point.  Accuracy is important.”

“I _am_ accurate,” Castiel points out.

“You’re accurate with your arm extended,” Dean argues calmly.  “You need to learn to shoot from the hip.”  He draws his gun again, but not at full speed.  

This time Castiel sees that he keeps his arm low, aiming as soon as the gun is free instead of lifting it and sighting along his arm.  “And how do I do that?”

“Breathe slowly, relax your grip.  Folks have a tendency to hold a gun like they want to strangle it, and that creates too much tension and ruins your aim.”  Dean draws again, still at a slower speed to allow Castiel to observe his movements.  He squeezes the trigger and a notch disappears from the cactus’ outstretched limb.  “The most important thing is concentration,” he continues to explain in between several more quick draw shots, each enlarging the notch until a half moon is cut out of the cactus.

Dean lowers his gun and turns to Castiel.  “You try.”

With a sigh, Castiel shakes out his arms and faces the cactus again.  He spares a thought for the poor plant that doesn’t deserve to be their target, then he draws and shoots without lifting his arm past his waist.  He’s low, but he manages to hit it this time.

“Better,” Dean says.  He moves to stand behind Castiel, close enough that Castiel can feel his body heat.  

One of his hands comes to rest on Castiel’s hip, and the other cups under the elbow of his shooting arm.  “Relax your wrist.  Drop it down just a bit.”  He adjusts Castiel’s stance with the hand on his hip.  “Turn your body just a little this way.  Always face your target straight on.”

Castiel breathes in slowly as Dean’s hand slips down his denim clad thigh.

“Keep your weight balanced on both feet,” Dean instructs.  “You’ll be less likely to have your aim thrown off by the gun’s kick.”

Castiel’s jaw tightens as Dean’s hand returns to his hip.  He tells himself he’s concentrating on the lesson, and not the sensations Dean’s hands rouse.  Dean leans in closer, his chin over Castiel’s shoulder, their hat brims brushing together.  Castiel can feel the heat of his body wrapping around him, smell the essence of sun and leather, and the tang of copper.  The latter shouldn’t be arousing, but Castiel is beginning to fear that his body will soon show signs of how it’s affected by the aura of danger Dean exudes.

Their bodies move together then apart as Castiel corrects his stance as Dean instructs.  Every contact--the brush of Dean’s thighs at the back of Castiel’s, the brief touch of Dean’s hip against Castiel’s bottom, Castiel’s back pressed into the hard wall of Dean’s chest--teases Castiel.  It’s more maddening than if Dean were to suddenly turn him and take him in his arms.

Memories of that stormy night on the high desert comes to him, followed by all of the times they had accidentally touched since.  It makes him ache for more. 

The confusion and uncertainty he feels as he draws the gun and squeezes the trigger isn’t from Dean’s lesson.  All his focus is on the points of his body Dean is still touching when he pulls the trigger.  

The bullet finds its target, only slightly off Dean’s mark on the cactus.

“Again,” Dean whispers gruffly.  As if he too feels the undercurrent pulsing between them.

Castiel holsters the gun.  Draws.  Fires.  He repeats the action, each time quicker than before and almost as precise as he was when he aimed normally.  

Then Dean’s hands disappear, along with the rock solid strength of his body at Castiel’s back.  “Empty the chamber,” he instructs, his voice calm and controlled.  As if he’s completely unaffected by their proximity.

Dean fights to keep his breathing even as he watches Cas take his last few shots.  His body tingles where they’d been pressed together, and he’s glad that Cas’ back is to him, because he doesn’t want to reveal just how affected he is by the Pinkerton.  A shift of just an inch or two, and Cas would have _felt_ it before Dean moved away.

Swallowing to wet his dry throat, Dean wills his body to calm down.  He’s only marginally successful, but luckily Cas doesn’t look at him right away when he lowers the Colt.

“Is that good enough?” 

Cas’ voice is huskier than usual, and Dean wonders if it’s from anger at Dean’s presumptuous treatment, or if he’s feeling the spark between them as strongly as Dean is.  Either way, Dean’s chest thrums at the sound.  

“It’ll do for now,” Dean answers, and silently curses the deeper timbre of his own voice.  To distract himself, he turns to his horse to retrieve his gloves and pull them on now that his hands aren’t crusted with blood.  “Hopefully it’ll be enough to keep you from getting your head blown off in a gunfight.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence in my ability,” Cas says wryly.

Dean looks at him in time to catch an eye roll, and he almost opens his mouth to say something to sooth Cas’ wounded pride.  But his own pride keeps the words locked in his throat.  Add that to his list of sins.  

He turns to find Sam leaning against his horse’s side watching them, lips quirked into a knowing smirk.  Dean gives him his fiercest frown, which only makes his brother bare his teeth in a delighted grin.

Before Dean can lay into him, Sam mounts his horse.  “Sound travels a long way out here.  We’d better get a move on in case the posse heard that.”

Dean swings astride Baby and turns to look down at Cas.  The Pinkerton’s expression is partially hidden under the shadow of his hat brim, but his plush lips are pursed in displeasure.  Dean’s shoulders loosen, and he manages to speak past his own idiotic pride.  “You’re a natural, Cas, but I’d rather you get a little more quick draw practice against trees before you have to try it out against men who can shoot back.  Let’s get out of here.”

The frown relaxes, and Cas tips his head back further.  His shadowed blue eyes meet Dean’s.  “Yes, that would be preferable.”

He mounts his gelding, and nudges it up along side Dean’s.  “Thank you for the lesson,” he says for Dean’s ears only.  

Dean gives him a curt nod, not trusting his voice.  Then he urges Baby back on the trail.

Castiel watches Dean’s broad shoulders for a moment before his attention shifts to Sam who is waiting patiently for him.  He frowns when he remembers something Dean had said during his tirade.

“Sam?  Why was Gordon hunting you?”

The question makes Sam’s face twist with a mixture of anger and regret.  He hesitates, and Castiel can see that he doesn’t want to answer.  Before Castiel can take the question back, Sam sighs and says simply “he thinks I’m the Antichrist.”

Without further explanation, Sam gently kicks his horse’s sides, sending it chasing after Dean.  Castiel blinks after him for a moment, wondering what kind of locoweed Gordon had been smoking to think _Sam,_ of all people, has an evil bone in his body.  Deciding that he’ll never know since the man in question is dead, Castiel hurries to follow the brothers.

* * *

They travel steadily south, following the bloody trail of the Comancheros toward the Mexican border. They pass through many small towns, farms and ranches, and stage outposts.  Or just small stops along a cattle trail.  Every location is small and remote, days apart from each other.  But they have food and water available for purchase, and small Catholic churches to provide sustenance to the soul.

They’re dusty, hot, barren little places, similar to one another in their small size and their mixed populations of Mexicans, Anglos, and Indians.  And they all share the common bond of death and destruction at the hands of the Comancheros.

As they move from town to town, Castiel learns of the horrors inflicted on these simple and kind folk by the bandits as they pass through.  In one town an old man had been ridden down and trampled to death for refusing to give up the meager coins he carried to buy a candle for the church altar.  Another town bore the black scar where a store was burned to the ground, the owner and his wife shot to death, because they didn’t carry a particular item one of the outlaws wanted.

A poor farmer barely able to provide for his family lost everything when his two mules were shot, and his tiny field of corn burned.  His loved ones survived, but winter will be hard with no corn for their meals.

One small town was raided completely, no building left unlooted.  Anyone who tried to defend their home or business was gunned down.

Everywhere the Comancheros visit, they leave death and ruin.  And a clear message promising the same to anyone who dares follow.

As long as he lives, Castiel will never forget the misery and suffering he sees as they follow the path of destruction.  His hatred and anger for Alistair grows, and he wants nothing more than to bring justice to the outlaws who follow the demon.

But Dean and Sam understand what the survivors have experienced in a way that Castiel does not, and their small gestures of kindness humble him.

They provide sufficient money for the widow of the man who was run down to buy candles and food, which her husband would no longer be able to provide.  The store owner and his wife had no family, so the brothers make sure they have a proper marker for their graves.  The farmer who lost his mules and corn fields wakes up the morning after they pass through to find several large sacks of corn at his front door, and his family won’t starve in the coming winter months.  In the town that was decimated for their meager valuables, money is provided to the church to care for three children orphaned in the raid.

Before leaving Las Cruces Castiel had already seen a side of the brothers that doesn’t show up in any reports.  Sam is intelligent and kind, friendly and open.  Dean is capable of gentleness and patience.  But in the weeks they spend traveling south, he sees first hand how compassionate they are.

Outlaws, killers, and gunfighters do not gain their reputations through compassionate acts.  They earn them through ruthlessness and violence.  And while the Winchester brothers are capable of those things, almost everything Castiel has seen of them has been the opposite behavior.

At some point in their lives, there had been people who taught the brothers a sense of compassion, kindness, and decency.  

Castiel knows the parts of their history that they’ve shared with him, and he knows that living a life bent on revenge, never settling down and having a loving home after theirs was destroyed so long ago, could have extinguished those sparks of goodness.  Drowned them out, until all that was left were hollow, cruel men.  After several weeks of seeing the depth of empathy and humanity they are capable of, he realizes that they are something of a miracle.  

Another small village looms in the distance, and Castiel braces himself for what new horrors they’ll encounter.  When they arrive, they learn the Comancheros raided and looted here as they had with all the previous locations.  Castiel was beginning to believe nothing could affect him more deeply than what he’d already witnessed, but what he finds there is by far the most heartbreaking encounter.

Her name is Magda.  She lives at the far end of the town in a small adobe hut.  Many of the town’s residents fled to the nearby hills when they heard the Comancheros were coming, but Magda’s family had decided to stay, to trust God to keep them safe.

When the townsfolk returned, Magda was the only one left alive after the Comancheros rode out.

Castiel kneels beside the girl in the small house.  Magda sits on the dirt floor in the corner, knees drawn tight to her chest, and her arms wrapped around them.  She’s clean, and dressed in clothing that is obviously well taken care of.  Her long dark hair hangs around her in glossy waves.  At first glance everything seems normal.

But on closer inspection Castiel can see her swollen eyes and battered face.  Purple bruises darken Magda’s olive skin, and her lower lip is split.

But it’s her eyes that disturb Castiel the most.  They’re dull, lifeless.

Castiel resists the urge to touch the girl to give comfort, afraid he’ll startle her or induce more painful memories.  His heart aches for her.

It’s all so cruel and pointless.  There’s obviously little of value in this small village, but the Comancheros, the _demons_ , hadn’t come to steal, they came to destroy.

He and Sam had come here to talk to Magda in hopes that she could tell them about the Comancheros.  So far, most of the witnesses to the band of monstrous outlaws were dead, and Magda may have precious information.

“Magda,” Castiel says softly, afraid to disturb her, but also hopeful that she can give him something to prepare for the confrontation with Alistair and his men, “My name is Castiel Jameson.  I am a lawman, and I want to find the men who hurt you and bring them to justice.”  He reaches out tentatively and touches the girl’s arm, trying to offer some small comfort.

“I’m looking for a man,” he goes on to explain.  “He killed my brother.  I want to find him and make him pay for what he’s done.  I’ve been looking for him for a long time, and you can help me find him.”

Somehow he needs to break through Magda’s silence, but he isn’t certain the girl even understands English.  “Un anglo,” he says in Spanish.  He’s still learning the language, but has no idea how to articulate what he needs.

Nothing.  Not a blink, a frown, or even a twinge of emotion.  No reaction at all.

When Sam sees him struggling, he also crouches down at Magda’s other side.  Despite his immense size, he makes himself seem small and unthreatening.  His voice is gentle when he speaks to her.  Castiel only understands pieces of what he’s saying.   _Cabello canoso--_ graying hair, and _ojos pálidos--_ pale eyes.

Magda’s whole body goes tense, and her fingers curl into tight fists in her skirt.  “Blanco,” she whispers.  “El hombre tiene ojos blancos.”

Sam and Castiel look at each other over Magda’s bowed head.  Castiel doesn’t understand why Sam is suddenly so animated.  “White eyes?” he asks.  “What does that mean?”

“Alistair isn’t just any demon,” Sam says.  “Instead of black eyes, his turn white.”

The thought of looking into pure white eyes, with no iris or pupil, sends a shiver down Castiel’s spine.

“Algunos hombres tenían ojos negros.”  Magda says in a small, wavering voice.  

Even though Castiel is mostly certain he understands, Sam translates.  “Some of the men had black eyes.”

Magda nodded slowly, and her eyes fill with pain and fear, then pool with tears.  She nods vigorously.  “Si… son malvados.”

Castiel puts a hand over his mouth and listens closely as Sam continues to question the girl.  How many men?  Fifteen.  With black eyes?  Only four, and the white eyed man.  

And most importantly, what direction did they go?  _A las montañas._   To the mountains.

“Un anglo es el jefe.  Ellos iban a las montañas,” Magda says before she loses her battle with her tears and buries her face in the skirt covering her knees.  When Sam reaches out to touch her, Castiel expects her to flinch away, but she leans into him.  

 _El jefe_.  Alistair is the leader, and he’s gone to the mountains with his men.

Magda starts speaking again, and Sam nods and murmurs to her.  While he comforts her, the woman who has been caring for Magda since the raid gives Castiel a rough translation of what she’s saying.  The horrors she went through make tears well in Castiel’s eyes, and he marvels that the girl survived at all.

The most disturbing though, is when Magda talks about the black smoke filling her, and losing all control of her body.  And what the smoke made her do before leaving her alone in the wreckage.

A shadow catches Castiel’s attention, and he turns his head to look at the door.  Dean stands on the threshold, and Castiel wonders how long he’d been standing there.  He’d gone to talk to the village’s leaders, to see what support he could provide them.

By the expression on his face, Castiel knows Dean heard at least the last part of Magda’s terrible tale.


	20. Chapter 20

Castiel surges to his feet and follows Dean as he rushes away, leaving Sam to comfort Magda.  He almost has to run to catch up with Dean, just as he reaches his horse.

“Dean, wait!”

“She’d be better off dead,” Dean growls without turning around.   

Horror at Dean’s words stabs through Castiel’s chest.  “That’s not true.”

Dean ignores him and winds his hands tightly in the Appaloosa’s reins as he prepares to pull himself into her saddle.

Castiel knows deep in his bones that letting Dean leave right now is a bad idea, and he speaks quickly, voicing half formed thoughts that have haunted him since he witnessed Dean’s nightmares.  “Is that what you think about yourself?  That you wish you had died instead of escaping Alistair?”

Dean goes unnaturally still, his hands tight, shoulders hard.  

Taking the risk of spooking him, Castiel gently cups his shoulder and pulls him around.  The reins fall from Dean’s hands, and he doesn’t resist the touch.  Castiel gasps when Dean’s green eyes lock on his.  His expression is unlike any Castiel has seen before.  

In the weeks they’ve ridden together, Castiel has seen several sides of Dean: the outlaw condemned to hang; the man who gentles animals with a soothing voice; the ruthless gunfighter capable of taking a human life; the Hunter who kills monsters to save people who can’t protect themselves.  But he is unprepared for this new version of Dean that he’s never met before.

Dean’s eyes are filled with raw pain and anguish.  His mouth works as he fights to bring himself back under control.  Moisture brims in his eyes, spilling over as a single tear down each cheek.

The mask that Dean wears over the deep well of emotion is cracked, broken right down the center.  And for the first time, Castiel can see what Dean has been hiding beneath it.

“Dean,” Castiel says softly.  He doesn’t know what else to say, but he aches to comfort Dean in some way.

Turning his face up to the sky, Dean takes several deep breaths and wipes the moisture from his cheeks.  When he looks at Castiel again, he’s regained some control and the mask is slipping back into place.  But it is fragile, barely patched together, and Castiel can tell it could fall to pieces again at any minute.  

When Dean speaks, his voice holds a slight tremor, revealing how tenuous his control is.  “You saw what happened to that girl,” he says.  “Do you see now what we’re facing?  If we keep going?”

Dean hasn’t tried to convince Castiel to give up his hunt for Alistair since Las Cruces.  And for the first time, his words give Castiel pause.  He suspects Dean had also spent some time possessed by a demon while in Alistair’s company.  It would make sense.  After getting to know Dean these past few weeks, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea of Dean willingly riding with the demon and his Comancheros.  Not with how compassionate he is.  But if he were also possessed, and forced to do things he would never do otherwise…

He wonders again about Emmanuel’s last days, and his stomach roils at the new possibilities.  His fingers search out the beads around his wrist, and he finds comfort in the symbols carved into the smooth wood.

His conviction strengthens.  After seeing the destruction Alistair leaves in his wake, Castiel is more convinced than ever that the demon needs to be stopped.

“She’ll recover,” he says gently.  When Dean scoffs, he adds “you did.”

It’s just a guess.  Pieces put together from what he’d witnessed of Dean’s dreams, and his visceral reaction to the idea of hunting Alistair when they first met, put together with Magda’s story and the fact that Comancheros don’t make a habit of taking prisoners.

Dean looks at him, hard and piercing.  “Did I?”

Castiel swallows against a sudden lump in his throat and resists taking a step back from the weight of Dean’s stare.  Instead he lifts his chin stubbornly.  Because he believes what he is about to say, with everything in him.  “Yes.”

The answer surprises Dean, his eyes widening before he laughs incredulously.  He shakes his head as he speaks.  “You don’t know,” he says, his voice higher and lighter than Castiel is accustomed to.  “You don’t know _anything_ , Cas.  But I do.  And I’m afraid--” his breath hitches, and he presses his lips together and squeezes his eyes shut.  It takes him a moment to regain his voice, and now it’s hoarse with tightly leashed emotion.  “Cas, the things that I did.  What I became…”

He can’t tell Cas.  He _can’t._ Maybe he’s a selfish bastard, but he doesn’t want to see the look in Cas’ eyes when he learns what Alistair did to Dean.  What the demon shaped him into, in those last days before Sam did the unthinkable to save him.  He doesn’t want to talk about how Sam tainted himself with evil to rescue something barely human anymore.

Warm hands slide over his cheeks, and Dean can’t hold back a soft sob when Cas brushes away tears with his thumbs.  He keeps his eyes closed, because if he sees kindness and understanding that he doesn’t deserve, he’ll shatter.

Screams echo through his memories, and his fingers twitch with the phantom tackiness of hot blood.

“Dean,” Cas says, soft as a caress.  “Please look at me.”

Unable to deny a direct request, Dean opens his eyes, and his vision is filled with blue.  Cas is close enough that Dean would only need to move a few inches to kiss him.  More tears spill over when he sees the sorrow in Cas’ wide eyes.  

“You know better than anyone what we’re all fighting for.  You know what will happen if we fail.”

He does know.  Alistair and his Comancheros will continue to terrorize defenseless settlements.  They’ll raid, and rape, and murder.  

And Alistair will play with more victims the way he did with Dean.  The way he did with Magda.

“Cas, I’m afraid,” he whispers, admitting a horrible truth he’s been hiding from since the marshal's stuffy office in Tombstone.  Maybe even longer.  “If you ask me to walk back into Alistair’s domain, you will not like what walks back out.”

The tremor in Dean’s voice cracks something in Castiel’s heart, and his own eyes begin to sting.  Suddenly he wants nothing more than to let Dean walk away.  He and Sam will have to keep their heads down while Castiel finds some way to clear their names without bringing Alistair to the Territorial Governor.  And he won’t stop until he knows they’re free men.

But Alistair will still be out there.  Castiel can’t live with that.  He can’t turn away from this hunt, not knowing first hand the kind of devastation Alistair leaves in his wake.

“For what it’s worth,” Castiel says, “I would give anything for you not to do this.  But you’re my only hope of finding him.  I can’t do it without you.”

Dean jerks his head out of Castiel’s grasp, and laughs bitterly as he wipes his face with the back of a wrist.  “Of course.  You’ve gotta get your revenge.”

“This isn’t about Emmanuel anymore.” It still hurts to speak his brother’s name, and Castiel wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling his brother’s absence like a missing limb.  

When Dean looks skeptical, Castiel makes a decision.  He reaches for the Colt at his hip and slips it from the holster.  Balancing its weight on both palms, he offers it to Dean.

Dean’s eyes flick from Castiel’s to the gun, and back.  He makes no move to take it.

“But there’s no reason this hunt can’t still be about revenge,” Castiel says.

Understanding dawns, widening Dean’s eyes.  Slowly he reaches out and slips his fingers around the Colt’s handle.  He hefts its weight, refamiliarizing himself with the weapon.  It’s been only a matter of a month or two since he lost possession of it, but it still feels like an extension of his arm.

He stares down at the symbols etched into the gun.  His father died to get this weapon.  It killed the demon that destroyed his family so long ago, and it can kill the demon that haunts his nightmares.

“Why, Cas?” he rasps.

“It’s yours.”

He’s not just talking about the gun.  Dean hears the underlying message.

This hunt is Dean’s.

Silence stretches between them, until Dean blows out a sigh.  His heart is still thundering on the edge of panic, and his muscles crawl with memories of being controlled from within, only able to regain use of his own hands when he opened them to accept the tools Alistair offered him.

But Cas’ calm resolve somehow calms him.  Cas is a solid pillar of strength, close enough for Dean to reach out and touch.  He doesn’t, but it soothes his nerves to know that he can if he needs to.

He pictures the little girl inside the adobe hut.  Her sobs are still coming from the open door, quieter now, but no less anguished.  His heart, still human despite Alistair’s efforts, aches for her and the rest of the demon’s victims.  

Walking away from this hunt isn’t an option.  Not if he ever wants a chance at redemption.  

He reaches for the gun at his hip and offers it to Cas in exchange, forcing his face into something like a smile.  “Don’t shoot me with this one, okay?”

The way Cas smiles at him makes his heart flutter.  “I believe I can resist the urge.”

The bubble of tension inside Dean bursts, resulting in a delighted chuckle.  He claps Cas on the shoulder and smiles fondly.  “Don’t ever change, Cas.”

Cas’ smile softens into something almost shy, and a new kind of tension begins to grow between them.  Dean wants to hug him.  He wants to kiss him too.  Actually, he wants to throw Cas over Baby’s saddle and run away somewhere with him.  Somewhere safe, where Dean can wrap around him and forget there’s such a thing as monsters.

Before he can act on any of those urges, movement catches his eye and he looks up to see Sam ducking under the low door frame of the house.  When he straightens to his full height, his face is set in grim lines when he meets Dean’s eyes.  The pleasant warmth in Dean’s belly disappears, leaving him feeling faintly queasy.

“What did you learn?” Dean asks when Sam joins them.

Sam shakes his head sadly, and runs a hand through his hair before putting his hat on.  “Nothing good.”

“Alistair?” Dean asks.  The name tastes rotten in his mouth.

Sam’s eyes are sympathetic when he nods.  “Magda saw him.  She described the tall man with white eyes leading the Comancheros.”

Dean shivers in the boiling heat of the noon-day sun.  He knew it, but having it confirmed doesn’t exactly cheer him up.  “And his men?  There must be at least a dozen of them.”  And how many are possessed?

“There are fifteen,” Sam confirms.  “Including Alistair, and at least one other demon.  Maybe two.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathes.  Might as well be an army.  “Did she tell you which way they’re headed?”

“For the Sierra Madres.”

Dean looks out across the flat plains that lead into the foothills of the distant mountains.  The news just gets worse and worse.  “Then I know where he’s headed.  He’s got an old hideout up there, and there’s no telling how many men are waiting at the camp to meet up with them.”  He returns his attention to Sam and Cas.  “You realize that if we go after them, the odds we’ll come out alive are--”

“Terrible, at best,” Cas says grimly.  He shows no sign of hesitation.  

Determined to get himself killed, as always.  Dean wishes that didn’t make him feel so fond of the stupid bastard.

“Well, no one lives forever,” Dean says with forced brightness.  “Let’s go kick it in the ass.”

Cas nods and heads for his horse, but Sam stops Dean from mounting Baby with a soft grip around his arm.  “Hey,” he says low enough not to carry.  “Are you all right?”

Dean hates that Sam worries about him, but loves his little brother even more fiercely because of it.  “I’m fine,” he lies.

Sam’s far too perceptive to fall for it.  Whether it’s because they’ve lived in each other’s pockets for so long, or some lingering psychic thing powered by his tainted blood, he can see right through Dean.  Most of the time he doesn’t push, but he must know that Magda’s story has shaken Dean.  “You know if you’re not fine, you can talk to me about it right?”

“I know.  Doesn’t mean I’m going to though.” Dean’s eyes slide over to where Cas is already sitting atop his gelding, watching them patiently.  From this distance, Dean can’t pick out the blue of his eyes, but he knows they rival the desert sky for brightness.  And when their gazes meet, some of that light seeps into Dean, chasing away some of the darkness inside him.  

When he speaks again, the words are more true than the first time he said them.  “I’m fine, Sammy.  Really.”

Sam glances between Dean and Cas, and his grim expression softens.  “Good to know.”

Dean is pretty sure Sam is talking about more than his mental state.  But he doesn’t bother to deflect.  There are some lies that are too big, even for Dean.

* * *

They travel twenty miles the rest of that day.  The next day they ride over forty miles.  By dusk, they’re gazing across the border into Mexico.  There’s no official marker that Castiel might have expected to indicate they’re leaving one country and entering another.  Dean simply declares that they’re at the border, knowledge he’d probably gained from riding through this territory while he was in Alistair’s gang.

“We’ll stay on this side tonight and cross over in the morning.

“Why don’t we cross over tonight?” Castiel asks.  “There’s still plenty of daylight.  We might as well cover as much distance as possible.”  

Sam chuckles.  “I’m surprised to hear you suggest we keep going, Cas.”

Castiel’s cheeks warm at the gentle teasing, but he also feels some pride that he’s now able to keep up with the Winchesters without feeling like he’s going to fall out of the saddle at any moment.  He’s certainly tired and sore, but he doesn’t feel like he needs to stop.  “Now that we’re so close, I’m eager to keep going,” he admits.

Sam nods his understanding, but Dean gives Castiel a long, contemplative look.  “Once we cross over, we leave law and order behind,” Dean says.  “Such as it is.”

It seems ironic for someone like Dean Winchester to worry about a lack of law and order, but he doesn’t point it out.  Instead he reminds Dean “Except for that sheriff from Las Cruces.”

“It depends on whether or not he’s greedy and stupid or just plain greedy.”

“I think we can count on greedy,” Castiel assures him.

“What makes you so certain about that?” Dean asks with mild curiosity.

“The letter I left for him a few towns back.”

Dean’s curiosity turns into mild suspicion.  “What’s in the letter?”

“It explains about your pending pardon, and that we’re after Alistair White and he’s with the Comancheros.  Also…” his voice trails off.

Sam speaks up.  “Also what?”

When Cas squirms in his saddle and looks away from both of them, Dean knows he isn’t going to like this part.

“I mentioned in the letter that Alistair is worth ten thousand dollars, dead or alive.”

Dean exchanges a long look with his brother.  That’s what they’re worth added together.  Dean hasn’t seen a wanted poster for Alistair in a while, so he doesn’t know if it’s an accurate amount, but it would be tempting as sin. 

“Do you think he’ll believe that?” Sam asks.

Dean scoffs.  “He’s a greedy asshole, and stupid to boot.”

“He’s not _that_ stupid,” Cas argues.  “He tried to collect the reward money for you, didn’t he?”

“He might still try,” Sam points out.  “Ten thousand for us is easier to collect than Alistair’s reward.  He’d be smarter to try arresting us again than going after Alistair.  Especially without the release papers, and our pardon still pending.”

Castiel frowns.  “But you _will_ get your pardons, so if he wants his money, he’ll need to get Alistair.  And he needs us to find him.”

“Why the hell are you trying to set him on Alistair’s trail anyway?” Dean asks.

“It would even our odds against the Comancheros if there were more than three of us,” Castiel points out.  “But since I don’t have your release papers on hand, and he _is_ a greedy bastard, we really should try to stay as far ahead of him as possible.”

Dean leans back in his saddle and tips his face up to the sky in silent supplication for patience.  “Great.  I was hoping we’d lose him after crossing the border.”  Dropping his chin back down, he pins Cas with a hard stare.  “From here on out, I call the shots.  And that includes decisions about the sheriff.”

Cas’ frown deepens.  “But--”

“ _All_ the decisions, Cas,” Dean states flatly.  “You promised at the start of this that you’d follow my lead, remember?”

If Cas presses his lips together any harder, they’ll fuse together.  Despite his displeasure, he nods.

“If we’re going to have a chance in hell of surviving this, it’s going to depend on outsmarting Alistair.  I don’t want that sheriff complicating things.  At least not until I need him to.  Besides, I know this territory and you don’t.   When we cross the border, we do things my way, understand?”

Castiel tries not to sound sullen when he answers. It irritates him that Dean still treats him like a burden.  Dead weight he’s dragging along, instead of a full member of the team.  But he _did_ agree to Dean’s terms.  “I understand.”

Dean gives him a curt nod, then turns to his brother.  “And that goes double for you, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes narrow dangerously.  “Excuse me?”

“This is too dangerous for you--”

“It’s worse for you!”

“And you’re lucky I haven’t hogtied you and left you behind,” Dean says firmly.  

“I can handle it, Dean,” Sam protests hotly.

“Can you?” Dean snaps.  “You been testing yourself lately?”

Castiel peers back and forth between the brothers.  Their eyes remain locked on each other in hard glares, in a silent but vicious battle of wills.  He wants to ask what’s going on, but is afraid to get between two such bullheaded men.  He risks ending up crushed between them if he interferes with whatever disagreement they’re having.

Something in their silent communication makes Sam back down first.  He doesn’t bother hiding his bitterness.  “Fine,” he growls, giving Dean one last withering glare before turning away.  His movements are stiff with barely suppressed fury as he dismounts.

As soon as Sam’s back is turned, Castiel witnesses Dean’s hard expression fall into worried regret.  Whatever he’s holding over his brother bothers him.

It’s gone in a flash though, the calm mask sliding back into place.  “You guys set up camp.  I’ll scout around and see if I can rustle up some fresh meat for dinner.”

Sam doesn’t acknowledge him, but Castiel murmurs his agreement and offers to care for Baby.  Dean’s smile of gratitude is strained, but he hands over Baby’s reins before taking off into the growing gloom with his rifle.

As soon as he’s gone, Sam’s cold shoulder thaws.  He’s subdued, but polite when he speaks to Castiel.  Together they care for the horses, and Castiel gathers fuel to start a fire while Sam collects his cooking gear.

Once the fire is lit, Sam breaks the comfortable silence they’d fallen into.  “I suppose you’re wondering what that was all about.”

“I’m curious,” Castiel admits.  “But you don’t owe me an explanation.”

Sam gives him a tired, but genuine smile.  “I don’t mind.”  His face scrunches up, and he amends “well, I do.  But you should know, and I trust you with the story.”

Warmth fills Castiel.  When he started on this journey to find Emmanuel’s killers and bring them to justice, he had never felt so alone in the world.  His colleagues were barely more than acquaintances, and Aunt Naomi was far away.  He was without friends or family, and left with half of himself now that his twin was gone from the world.  And at no point did he ever feel like that would change.

But somehow, after years of hunting alone, and hundreds of miles away from anything familiar, he’s found a friend in Sam Winchester.

He reaches out to put a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder.  “Whatever you tell me now will stay between us,” he promises.

Sam chuckles.  “You’re a good friend, Cas.  I’m glad it was you that saved us from hanging.”

Castiel laughs as well.  To think, that if he’d been a few minutes too late, he would have lost this opportunity.  “Me too.”

They share a warm smile, but eventually Sam signs and turns his eyes to the tiny fire.  Its flames cast strang shadows across his features.  

“Dean told you how our mother died, right?”

“It was a demon attack on your home.” Castiel says gently.  His heart aches for the boys that lost so much that night.  “He told me it was there for you.”

Sam’s lips twist as if tasting something foul, and he nods.  “Mom caught it feeding me its blood.  It killed her when she tried to stop it, but it was too late.”

“Dean said it infected you,” Castiel says.  “He didn’t say how.”

“He told you a lot, didn’t he?” Sam waves Castiel’s apologies away.  “It makes this easier.  Did he tell you how it changed me?”

“Yes.  That it gave you visions, and the ability to move things with your mind.”

“It was mild when I was growing up,” Sam says.  “Felt like intuition more than visions.  And I could only move things if I was under a lot of stress.  Pa and Dean kept me safe most of the time, so I didn’t figure out I could do that until a few years ago.  But drinking more demon blood strengthens those powers.”

Castiel stares at Sam with wonder.  “That sounds…”

“Terrifying?” Sam offers wryly.

“Useful,” Castiel corrects.

To his pleasure, Sam laughs.  “Sometimes,” he admits.  “Although I couldn’t control it, and it wasn’t reliable.”  He sobers.  “Not until someone taught me how to properly use it.”

He falls silent and pensive.  Castiel waits him out.

“Ruby was her name,” Sam says so quietly that Castiel can barely hear him over the crackle of the flames.  “She told me that I could use it to save lives.  And to rescue Dean.  And I did.  I could concentrate and burn demons out of their hosts without killing the human.  I could hurt the demon, force them to give me information about where Alistair had taken Dean.  They couldn’t lie to me while under my power.”  

He holds out his arm, palm facing outward.  “I could just… make them do or say anything I wanted.”  His arm drops, his hand falling limp against his thigh.  “They couldn’t stop me from drinking my fill before I destroyed them.  Which I had to do.  It took more and more blood to do the things Ruby was teaching me.  And I was hungry for it.  So very hungry.”

Castiel can understand now why Dean said that the blood was changing him for the worse.  Because he can hear the wistful undercurrent in Sam’s words.  He misses that power.  But guilt rolls off of him in nearly palpable waves too.

“It helped you save Dean,” Castiel prompts when Sam stays quiet for a long moment.

“Yes, I saved him,” Sam says.  “But I couldn’t destroy Alistair.  Ruby warned me I wasn’t strong enough, and told me I needed even more blood.”  He looks up from the fire and his expression is stark.  “She wanted me to drain a demon down to the last drop.  Do you know what would happen to the vessel if I did that?”

“They’d die?” Castiel guesses.  

Sam nods.  “I wasn’t that far gone.  I couldn’t do it.  So I was able to force Alistair--” he cuts off, and Castiel can tell that he’s choosing different words than he originally planned.  “I forced Alistair to release Dean, but it drained me.  And Dean was horrified by what I’d done to myself to free him.  Said he wasn’t worth it.”  He scoffs.  “That idiot.”

“He certainly is.” They grin at each other over their shared exasperation with the elder Winchester.

But Sam’s cheer disappears when he takes up the tale again.  “Dean wanted me to stop drinking blood.  Hell, _I_ wanted to stop drinking blood.  And I promised I would give it up, but… I couldn’t help it.  And Ruby was all too happy to feed my addiction behind Dean’s back.  And when he found out…” he trails off with a shudder.

Castiel can imagine how unpleasant Dean’s displeasure was.  And he wonders at how such events didn’t drive a permanent wedge between them.

As if reading his mind, Sam continues.  “It nearly broke us apart.  But Dean’s a stubborn bastard.  He locked me up, got me clean.  It nearly killed me.” His next words are even more grim.  “After he was sure I would live, he hunted down Ruby and killed her with the demon killing knife she’d gifted us to gain our trust after she first crawled out of Hell.

I thought I loved her.  But after she was gone for good, I realized I only loved how powerful her blood made me feel.”  Sam rubs a thumb across his bottom lip.  “I still crave it.”

“That’s why Dean thinks it’s dangerous for you to hunt demons,” Castiel concludes.

“He’s not completely wrong,” Sam agrees.  “But we’re stronger together than apart.  I’m not going to let him leave me behind.  Not when Alistair is more of a danger to Dean than to me.”

“I see.” Castiel leans back and looks to the sky.  The first stars are just blinking into existence against its dark background.  He wonders if he’ll ever get used to the beauty of the desert sky at night, or if will fill him with awe until his dying day.  “I’m putting you both in grave danger, aren’t I?”

“Cas, I would have come with you for this hunt even without the promise of a pardon,” Sam says firmly.  “Alistair needs to be destroyed.  As long as he’s walking the earth, people will die.  And Dean will be in danger too.  Alistair was not happy to let him go.”

“I’m getting you that pardon,” Cas promises.  “You and your brother deserve them, even without finding Alistair.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Sam grins suddenly, his bleak mood melting away.  “But it’ll probably easier to get the pardon this way than to try and clear our names.  So let’s finish this hunt, yeah?”

Castiel agrees, laughing along with Sam even though the notion of facing such a powerful enemy is daunting.  The strain of too much worry is a burden they can let go of right now, in the relative safety of the empty desert, in the warm pool of firelight that beats back the darkness.

By the time Dean returns, they’ve finished setting up camp.  Sam takes the skinny jackrabbit Dean brought back and sets it to roast over the fire.  Dean is silent and grim, only answering Sam’s questions about his scouting with grunts and two or three word sentences as he settles down by the fire.

After dinner, Castiel helps Sam clean up.  Sam retreats to his bedroll, but Dean pulls out his harmonica and plays a quiet tune.

Castiel excuses himself to take care of nature’s call.  When he’s finished, he stays outside the circle of firelight and watches the sky while he listens to Dean’s harmonica singing into the night.  Constellations he recognizes from Emmanuel’s old schoolbooks slide across the black dome, and he traces them with his eyes until he can’t remember any more of their names.  Then he looks out across the starlit desert surrounding their encampment.

It’s surrounded on three sides by an unusual cluster of large rocks, so there’s only one way anyone can approach, should someone decide to pay a visit during the night.  He’d recognized its potential safety when Dean had chosen the spot to stop, even as he’d argued that they continue their journey.  Outside the circle of boulders, the desert stretches out seemingly forever in most directions, with the mountains looming dark to the south.

This land is a constant wonder to Castiel.  Everything out here seems bigger, grander, more breathtaking… more dangerous.

As dangerous as the outlaw who sits crouched before the fire when Castiel returns to the safety of their camp.

Firelight plays across the planes and angles of Dean’s face.  He’d stopped playing, his harmonica wrapped loosely in one hand, as he stares into the flames.  Lost in thought, his face is relaxed, his usual mask over his emotions set aside for the moment.  There are faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, and around the slight downturn of his lips, revealing that the pace he’d set is just as grueling for him as it is for Castiel.  

He watches Dean for a long moment, admiring his handsome profile without constraint.  It feels liberating to be able to look his fill, without worry of being caught and poorly judged for his attraction.  There’s a tiny kernel of hope inside him that someday, if they survive this hunt, Dean might return his regard.  

His feet move, almost of their own accord.  Dean doesn’t seem to hear him as he approaches the fire.  When he’s close enough, Castiel reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder.

Quick, catlike, and completely without warning, Dean springs from his crouched position.  One hand darts out, grabbing Castiel’s wrist in a crushing grasp at the same time he draws the Colt.  In less than a heartbeat Castiel is staring down the barrel of a gun that has the power to destroy monsters, but can kill him without any magic involved.  A simple bullet lodged in the heart will be enough.

He’d seen Dean’s speed when he’d given Castiel quickdraw lessons, but he’d never seen Dean draw on a person.  It’s different.  Like the wind, he didn’t see it, he simply felt it.

His breath lodges in his throat, and he’s quite certain his heart stops beating.  Time hangs suspended, and all he can see is the gleam of firelight along the Colt’s long barrel and the pitch black hole at its end.

For a long moment, they both stare--Dean at Cas’ colorless expression, and Cas at the gun.  They each struggle with the horrifying realization of how close Cas had come to dying in that split second when Dean had reacted without thought or emotion, only instinct.

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean hisses.  “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone?”  Slowly he eases the hammer back.  But even as he holsters the weapon, Cas backs away from him, twisting his wrist free of Dean’s grasp.

“Cas?”

He holds out a trembling hand and takes another step back.  “No.”

Dean frowns and tries to close the space between them, but when he takes a single step forward, Cas backs up again.  “Cas, come on.”

Cas’ breathing is fast and harsh, and even more color drains from his face.  Dean holds up his own hands, showing that their empty, and inches forward again.  “Cas, it’s all right.”

This time Cas holds still long enough for Dean to touch him.  Dean slips his arms around his shoulders and pulls him against his chest.  Cas is stiff against him, allowing the touch, but still ready to jump away.  His hands are wedged between them, palms flat against Dean’s chest.  Dean runs a hand up Cas’ back, and massages his nape where his growing hair curls against Dean’s fingers.  

“Cas,” he whispers.  “Castiel… I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“I know,” Castiel answers.  It’s the truth, although his heart beats wildly, refusing to believe his head.  His muscles stay coiled, ready to fight his way to freedom, and he shakes with the conflicting needs to put as much space between them as he can and to lean into Dean’s strength to take the comfort being offered.

For almost as long as he can remember, Dean has eschewed the need for kindness, gentleness, and tenderness.  There’s no room for them in his life after his mother’s death.  But now from somewhere deep within comes the need to comfort and protect Cas.  To take away his fear, and give him the gentle care that he deserves.

He pulls Cas tighter against him, threading his fingers through Cas’ hair.  He tilts their heads together, until their foreheads touch, and their breath mingles.  He can feel the frantic beat of Cas’ heart against his chest, and how rigid he holds himself.  Cas keeps his gaze downcast, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes.  It breaks something inside Dean to know that he did this to Cas.  That he so easily damaged the trust that had been growing between them.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, as his fingers brush through Cas’ hair.  “It won’t happen again.” 

The gentle touch eases Cas, tension draining from his body with each stroke of Dean’s fingers.  A sigh shudders out of him, and his lashes lift, revealing eyes still dark with fear.  But there’s something else there.  Something just as primal that calls to Dean, lures him in.

“I promise,” Dean whispers.  His hand slides out of Cas’ hair to his jaw, his thumb pressing up under Cas’ chin to the right angle for Dean to brush their lips together.  

“I promise,” he says again.  And then what began as a need to comfort quicky burns into a much deeper, more elemental need.


	21. Chapter 21

The knot of fear in Castiel’s belly loosens and transforms into burning tendrils of desire.  And he is reminded of how truly dangerous Dean is to him.

In their mad dash for safety after Las Cruces, and amid all the horror they found in each town they’ve passed through, Castiel had begun to think that stormy night so long ago was nothing more than a dream.  Now all the things he’d discovered that night, the passion and the hunger, come flooding back to him.  He feels as if he’s being swept away again, but this time by a wave of longing more powerful than any flash flood.  It overwhelms him, leaves him trembling and breathless, and he aches for more.

Dean’s lips are soft and feather-light as they brush against Castiel’s, and he is mercilessly tender as he cradles Castiel’s face in his broad palms.  His hands are callused and scarred, accustomed to violence and the cold shape of a gun, but he caresses Castiel like he’s made of the most fragile glass, and might be easily broken by a rough touch.   

There had been nothing tender or gentle in Dean that night on the banks of the river.  He’d been a part of the storm, wild and powerful, as dangerous to Castiel as the raging flood.

Castiel has seen glimpses of Dean’s softer side, but he would never have thought he’d experience it this way.  Under Dean’s hands, Castiel feels treasured.  And more vulnerable than he could have ever imagined.

Dean’s mouth, soft and warm, lingers only long enough to make Castiel want more.  He leaves sweet kisses at the corners of Castiel’s lips, on his chin and his cheeks, before coming back to his mouth.  Each kiss is quick and light, giving Castiel no time to recover before Dean changes tactics and nibbles at his bottom lip.  A soft noise escapes his throat, and his mouth opens under Dean’s tender assault.

He stares up at Dean.  His green eyes are strange and dark, and when he speaks, Castiel feels it against his lips like another soft kiss.

“Castiel.”

And then Dean is kissing him again.  Castiel’s eyes slip closed and he gives himself over to the sensations Dean rouses in him.  

Dean’s fingers stroke along his jaw, the calluses rasping against his growing beard.  Then his velvety tongue swipes against Castiel’s mouth, seeking entrance.

Parting his lips, Castiel meets Dean’s tongue with his own.  His fingers curl into the fabric of Dean’s shirt.  He doesn’t know if he wants to pull him closer, or if he’s simply holding on for dear life as Dean deepens the kiss, nudging Castiel’s lips wider with his own.

From the other side of the fire comes the faint sound of rustling.  And then a pointed cough.

“Damn!” Dean whispers against Cas’ mouth as he slowly lifts his head.

At first Cas looks dazed, but then his eyes fly open.  He jerks out of Dean’s arms.

“Cas?” Dean questions softly, while silently cursing his brother.

“I’m all right,” Cas says shakily. He shuffles back a few steps.

Dean catches his hand, stopping his retreat.  “Are you sure?”

He’s not sure what he sees in Cas’ eyes.  Worry?  Regret?  The idea that he might regret the kiss makes something unpleasant twist inside of him.

“Yes, I’ll be fine.”  His voice sounds strange, and his eyes stay firmly on Dean’s lips.  His tongue slips out to wet his lips.  Lips that Dean wants desperately to kiss again.  “Please…”

Dean isn’t sure what Cas is asking for.  Please go away?  Please stay?  Please kiss me again?

He goes for the safest option, even though he doesn’t want to shy away from the danger.  He releases Cas and takes a step back.  Cas turns on a heel and heads for the far edge of camp.  

“Stay within sight of the camp,” Dean calls after him.

Cas pauses and nods jerkily.  Then he walks out into the darkness.  Dean watches him go, and tries to sort through his tangled emotions.

What the hell is Cas doing to him?

He turns to resume his seat by the fire and finds Sam watching him.  Irritation rises from the jumbled knot of emotions in his gut.  “Thanks, Sammy.  Real good timing, there.”

Sam’s eyes are sympathetic.  “Sorry.  But I figured it was best to stop things before they got too far.”

Dean sighs, and his irritation escapes on the deep exhale.  He doesn’t like it, but Sammy’s right.  They don’t exactly have privacy out here, and he doesn’t want to think about Cas’ reaction if he’d remembered Sam was there after they’d started removing clothing.  

He picks up his harmonica where he’d dropped it in the dirt and dusts it off as he sits back down.  “I know.”

“It’s not just a fling anymore, is it?” Sam asks.

Instead of answering, Dean lifts the harmonica to his lips.

When Castiel regains a semblance of control and calm, he returns to camp.  Sam is curled back up in his bedroll and Dean is playing a soft, mournful tune.  He looks up when Castiel gets close, and the music cuts off.  The light dances in the depths of his green eyes, and his lips turn down, revealing a dimple on each cheek.

Castiel wonders what’s making him frown.  Regret?  Disappointment?

He doesn’t regret the kiss, nor is he disappointed.  If Sam had been conveniently absent, Castiel would have let Dean take things much farther than a kiss.  And he curses his reluctance back in Las Cruces.  He _wants_ Dean, and should take every opportunity to touch him, kiss him.

Because he doesn’t know how many more opportunities he’ll have.  If any.

Dean glances away, and Castiel decides he’s far too tired to think about anything--Dean related or not--right now.  He makes his way to his bedroll and climbs into the blankets.  He wiggles around a few times, trying to eke out a comfortable nest in the rocks and dirt, but he freezes when Dean’s voice rings out.  

“Cas! Don’t move!”

His head snaps up at Dean’s hissed warning.  “What’s wrong?”

Dean is on his feet and coming around the fire.  When Castiel shifts to watch him, he snaps “Dammit, I said don’t move!”

Castiel’s heart begins to hammer, and his mind begins to conjure numerous possible dangers.  Is it Indians?  The Comancheros?

He jumps when Dean’s hand slaps down near his head.  Disobeying the order not to move, he bolts upright and stares at Dean.

“You had a visitor,” Dean says.  He lifts his hand, revealing something small, and light brown, now crushed against the blanket near where Castiel’s head had been.

“What is it?” Castiel whispers.

“Scorpion.”

Castiel’s eyes move from the mangled creature on his blanket to Dean’s bare hand.  His eyes narrow as he remembers the story Dean had told him about scorpions.  “I thought you said they were poisonous.”

“They are.  The sting can be real painful.”  There’s just the barest hint of humor in his voice.

“But not deadly?” Castiel asks, as suspicion grows in his chest.  

Dean gives him a long look, and Castiel knows him well enough now that he can see the teasing sparkle in his eyes.  “Not usually, though I hear some in Mexico can be.”

The way Cas squints at him makes it damn hard to keep a straight face.  But Dean perseveres.  

Barely.

Cas is onto him.  “But not this one.”

Dean makes a show of examining the dead scorpion.  He uses the time to get a tighter grip on the laughter threatening to break free.  “Nah,” he says after a moment, proud of how nonchalant he sounds.  “Not this one.”

When he looks up again, he nearly loses it.  Cas has a damn fine poker face, but Dean is learning his tells.  Anyone else might see a cool facade, but if looks could kill Dean would be a pile of ash in the dirt.

“I”m so very glad,” Cas says flatly, as he casually brushes the scorpion off his blanket.

Dean is in so much trouble.  And he kind of loves it.  

Refusing to be the butt of the joke any longer, Castiel lies back down and turns his back to Dean.  After several long moments there’s still no sound of Dean moving away.  He’s capable of being deadly silent when he moves, but Castiel’s ears are pricked for even the tiniest sounds, and Dean isn’t _that_ skilled.  Besides, he can still feel the weight of Dean’s stare on his shoulders.

Having Dean’s eyes on him warms him more than the heat of the fire.

“Is there a snake in my hair?” he asks dryly when Dean still doesn’t move away.

Dean chuckles.  “I don’t think so,” he says cheerfully.  “Would you like me to check?”

Castiel vividly remembers the way Dean’s hands felt in his hair, and the mesmerizing results.  If Sam hadn’t broken the spell…

And then there had been Dean’s expression afterwards.  He’d looked as dazed as Castiel felt.

“No,” he replies.  “I believe I’d notice.”  He looks over his shoulder and meets Dean’s eyes.  They sparkle with humor but there’s a warmth in them that Castiel didn’t expect.  “Good night, Dean,” he whispers, even as he yearns for Dean to stay right where he is.  Or come closer.

He doesn’t move right away, and Castiel wonders if Dean can hear the drumming of his heart inside his ribs.  Then Dean reaches out and combs his fingers through Castiel’s hair, wrapping them in the curls behind his ear.  “We’re not finished, Cas,” he says in a hushed voice that sends a jolt of _something_ down Castiel’s spine.

He could be talking about many things.  Their earlier disagreement, the hunt… the kiss.  Castiel knows which one he wants it to be.  But does Dean feel the same?  “I don’t know what you mean.”

With one last gentle stroke through Castiel’s hair, Dean says “yes, you do.  Goodnight, Castiel.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Castiel restless, mind awhirl with waking dreams of soft touches and hard kisses.

* * *

Dean insists they ride out early the next morning to cross the border into Mexico.  There’s a small valley he wants to reach by sundown, so they push the horses hard as the sun shows itself over the eastern horizon.  

Gradually the land around them changes from gray-brown desert to gently rolling hills blanketed in green.  Scrub brush gives way to knee-deep wild grass as they approach a river, and they follow it toward the foothills.  The mountains looming ever closer are covered in a verdant green forest until their highest peaks rise jagged and rocky above the treeline.

Alistair and his Comancheros are somewhere in those mountains.  Looking up at their vast expanse, Castiel wonders how they’ll find him, even with Dean’s guidance.  But he holds onto his faith in the other man.  Dean has gotten him this far, after all.

Late in the afternoon they cross into a small valley nestled in two outstretched arms of the mountains.  In the distance the sun is an orange ball hovering above the jagged peaks which cast cool shadows over a group of log cabins clustered at their base.

They pass fenced pastures dotted with cows, rows of trees in a small orchard, and a field rippling with rows of shoulder high corn.  Soon dogs are barking to announce their arrival, their warning carrying across the tiny valley.  Chickens squawk in the yard, and in another pasture mares and their half-grown colts scatter at the scent of strange horses. 

Castiel watches them run.  There’s something familiar in the spotted rumped mares and their smokey offspring.

Men, women, and several children emerge from the cabins, while even more young men appear in the fields and corrals, all watching the strangers with wary curiosity.  Many of them are dark haired and dark eyed, with similar features.  But there are anglos among them as well.  Castiel even picks out a young blonde boy, and a redheaded girl of only a few years clutching an older girl’s skirts and peeking at the visitors with pale eyes.  It’s a large group, the children ranging from an infant cradled in a young woman’s arms to young boys and girls on the cusp of adulthood.  

A few of the older girls giggle shyly, and stare with unabashed curiosity and interest when Dean sweeps his hat off and gives the gathering a friendly smile.  An older man standing near the back of the crowd laughs and starts gently pushing his way through them.  “Dean?  Sam?  Is that you, mi amigos?”

Dean grins at him.  “Buenos dias, Cesar.”

The greeting is a signal that all is well with the strangers.  The brother’s horses are crowded as greetings are shouted out, mostly in Spanish but with a smattering of English.  Castiel allows his gelding to back away from the group.  He occasionally receives curious glances, but mostly everyone is focused on the Winchesters.

Castiel sits back and watches the emotional reunion in amazement.  Both Dean and Sam are inundated with hugs from the women and children and friendly back slaps from the men and older boys.  Sam ends up with the blonde boy in his arms, face tucked under his chin, while Dean shouts a delighted greeting to a woman who looks about his age and hugs her until she squeaks.  He tries to ignore the tiny curl of jealousy he feels when she stands up on her toes and kisses him on the cheek, and he’s relieved when she moves on to Sam to greet him in the same way.

He may also be mildly jealous of the familiarity Dean and Sam share with these people.  Like they’re part of the family, returned from a long journey.  The only person who would have greeted him so enthusiastically would have been his brother Emmanuel, and the only time they’d been apart long enough to truly miss each other is after he moved west.  And Castiel never had the opportunity to reunite with him again.

The thought makes his eyes sting, and he swallows against the growing lump in his throat.  His fingers find the beads of his rosary, and rub over the carvings.  It comforts him, but there’s still an ache of longing deep in his chest.

“I thought you were dead, my friend,” Cesar says over the ruckus of his family.  He’s smiling, but there’s concern in his dark eyes.

“You know I’m too hard to kill,” Dean replies, still grinning widely.  It’s been far too long since he’s seen many of these faces, and despite the reason he’s here, it’s good to see friends again.  “Came awful close to a hanging in Tombstone,” he admits.  

“Did you deserve it?” Cesar asks.  

“The Federal Marshal thought so.”

“But you’re still alive.”

Dean shrugs and his grin turns smug.  “The marshal wasn’t quick enough.”

Cesar throws his head back and laughs.  “You are like un gato.  So many lives to spare.  You should be careful, amigo, someday you’ll run out.”

“Guess I’ll just have to keep outrunning the fates,” Dean counters.  His eyes scan over the top of the crowd.  “Your family’s grown since I was last here.”

“Yes, well you’re not the only hunter that brings us strays.  And now some of them have married and started breeding,” Cesar says dryly.

“So I see,” Dean laughs.  “I don’t recognize the smallest ones.”

“You remember me, don’t you?”  

Dean turns to look down at a young woman that he may not have recognized if it weren’t for the birthmark just barely revealed by the collar of her blouse.  He smiles warmly.  “Hello, Amara.  Of course I remember you.  I used to bounce you on my knee.”  She was around twelve the last time he saw her, and it’s a bit of a shock to see that she’s grown so much in the years since he last visited.  She must be sixteen or seventeen now.  “Last time I saw you, you were wearing britches and following the boys around, begging to help with the horses.”

Amara’s cheeks flood with color.  “Perhaps you would like to see our Appaloosas later?  They’re very fine animals.”

He grins at her.  “I’d like that.”

“Much later,” Cesar cuts in.  “Our guests have only just arrived.  Why don’t you gather up the small ones, so we can give Dean and Sam room to breathe and relax a little before dinner, yes?”  He claps his hands together, getting everyone’s attention.  “There’s still work to be done!  Our guests will still be here for dinner.”

The crowd starts to disperse.  Sam gives the boy in his arms a kiss to the temple and sets him down, and he scampers off.  The young men return to their tasks, and the women gather up their baskets and return to gathering drying laundry.  Amara’s lips twist into a pout, but she follows the suggestion and starts shooing away the smaller children.  She casts a long look at Dean over her shoulder before disappearing into the house.  

“Where’s Jesse?” Sam asks as he moves to Dean’s side.

“Out with some of the vaqueros mending fences,” Cesar says.  He claps Sam on the shoulder and pulls him in to a hug, now that he has the opportunity.  “He’ll be home soon, and will be glad to see you both, I’m sure.”  

Then he pointedly looks over Dean’s shoulder.  “Your manners are lacking, mi amigos.  You haven’t introduced your compadre.”  He waves at Cas, who is still astride his horse, quietly taking in the reunion.  

Dean immediately feels guilty, and gestures for Cas to dismount and join them.  The Pinkerton does so, far more gracefully than he would have a few weeks ago after such a grueling ride.  He doesn’t even limp as he joins them, but Dean can see the weariness around his eyes.  Dean resolves to make up excuses to stay at the ranch for a day or two so that Cas can get some rest.

They could all use some rest before going after Alistair.

“This is Castiel Jameson,” Dean says as he steps back to give Cas room to greet Cesar properly.  “Cas, this is our friend Cesar Cuevas.”

“Hello,” Castiel says, holding out a hand.  

Cesar’s hand envelops Castiel’s and he smiles, but his dark eyes are curious.  “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Jameson.”

“Please, ‘Castiel’ is just fine.”

“Castiel, then” Cesar confirms, as he releases Castiel’s hand.  “What bad luck has left you accompanying these fine men?”

Castiel frowns at the question.  Despite the obvious friendship the Winchesters share with this man, he isn’t sure he should reveal the truth behind their presence here.  “It wasn’t luck.  I hired them to assist me with my mission.”

Dean snorts, and Sam rolls his eyes.  “The pay’s awful,” Dean murmurs dryly.

“Better than a coffin, six feet under,” Sam counters.

Their banter sharpens the curiosity in Cesar’s eyes.  But he does not ask any questions.  “Well, you are welcome in my home, Cas, as long as Sam and Dean here vouch for you.”  He makes a sweeping gesture toward the largest cabin.  “Come inside.  I’m sure you’d like to get cleaned up.  Then we’ll enjoy a fine meal together and we can catch up on the last few years.”  His eyes linger on Castiel, even though he seems to be addressing the brothers.  “And then maybe you will tell me what has brought you back to us.”

A couple teenage boys take over responsibility for their horses, allowing them to follow Cesar into the largest cabin.  He explains to Castiel that the older boys and vaqueros sleep in in the next largest cabin, while the smallest is used for storage.  The large cabin is where the women and smallest children stay.

Castiel looks around with awe.  From outside he could see that the cabin had been made of huge, hand-hewn timbers, probably brought down from the mountains.  But the inside is as nice as some of the homes he’d find in a much larger town.  The walls are filled in and smooth.  Colorful woven blankets decorate the walls, and rugs cover the wooden floors.  And the windows all have real glass, each hung with heavy shutters that can keep out the worst of a winter storm.

A large kitchen with a stone fireplace and oven dominates the center of the house, with several rooms built around it.  The largest is a dining room, with one end designated for relaxing after a meal by the overstuffed chairs tucked into a circle in the far corner.  The rest of the room is filled with a long table with many chairs.  The furnishings are simple, but well cared for and appear comfortable.

Cesar asks the older boys to stay out in the vaquero’s cabin, which excites them enough that they’re willing to give over their sleeping quarters to Dean and Sam.  And Castiel is given the small room that Amara had been using for herself, which means she’ll be moving in with the younger children temporarily.  

The request displeases Amara, though she doesn’t voice any arguments as she obediently gathers her things to move.  But she also doesn’t bother to hide the sullen looks she gives Castiel. 

“You don’t need to rearrange the living arrangements for me,” Castiel objects softly.  There’s something dangerous in Amara’s eyes, and he doesn’t want to make an enemy of the young woman.  “I’ll be comfortable enough with a pallet on the floor.  Or I could stay in the vaquero’s cabin as well.”

“Nonsense,” Cesar disagrees firmly.  “You are a guest, and most of the young ones will be happy to be out with the bigger boys.”  He eyes Amara as she disappears through a doorway.  “And this will teach a valuable lesson on hospitality to those who need it.”

Castiel accepts his reasoning, and resolves to be friendly with the girl.  They may not be here long, but hopefully he’ll be able to ease whatever animosity he’s earned over the course of their stay.

He gratefully accepts the opportunity to bathe in a small enclosure behind the main house.  Feeling like he’s carrying half the desert sand on himself, he lathers himself up twice.  Hopefully that much soap will also kill anything that’s been living inside his clothes besides himself.

When he’s finished bathing, he finds that his dirty clothes are gone.  In their place is clean clothing, probably left while he was dunked under the water.  As he pulls on the worn, but sturdy clothing, he sighs gratefully.  It has been far too long since he’s felt like a civilized man, and he’ll need to find out who loaned him the change of clothes so that he can thank them later.  

After pulling on his own boots, he wanders back into the house.  His hair is still damp, and he feels slightly underdressed, but he assumes if his hosts wanted him to dress more properly for dinner, they would have provided more than the basic shirt and pants.  

The house seems to be mostly empty, so he heads for the kitchen where he hears a feminine voice humming.  He finds Ellie at the stove.  She’d been introduced to him earlier as Cesar’s sister, which had come as a surprise since she’s the only adult woman he’s met here, and he’d expected her to be Cesar’s wife.  She’d laughed when he commented on his misconception, but Cesar had gone quiet, his lips pressed together and turned down at the corners.  But when he’d noticed Castiel’s regard, his friendly smile was immediately back in place, leaving Castiel to wonder at the fleeting signs of reticence.

Ellie is stirring two pots of food that give off an enticing aroma, making Castiel’s belly rumble.

“You don’t have to wait for dinner,” Ellie says over her shoulder when she hears the sound.  She gestures at the table where a stack of tortillas sits next to a crock of butter.  “Help yourself to a snack before your stomach tries to eat itself.”

Smiling gratefully, he accepts the invitation.  He’s pleased to find a pot of honey as well, and drizzles some over the buttered tortilla.  A moan escapes him when he bites into the sweetened treat.  “Thank you very much,” he says once it’s polite to speak again.

“Sit down and relax,” Ellie says as she returns her attention to the food preparations.  “Sam says you’ve all been traveling for a while.  You must be exhausted.”

“I’ve been worse,” he responds, as he settles into a chair at the table.  It pleases him that he’s able to say so.  Memories of the earliest days of their trip are far from pleasant, and he’s glad that he’s no longer so soft.  “But yes,” he admits truthfully.  “I’m very tired.  If I weren’t so hungry, I’d go straight to bed and probably sleep through the next three days.”

“At least you’re willing to get some rest.  Sam and Dean are out with Cesar and the boys, visiting the horses.” She scowls at the wall in the direction of the corrals.  “They’d better get cleaned up properly before dinner, or I’ll let them starve.”

Castiel laughs at the threat, certain that she absolutely means it.  Honey drips from his tortilla onto his thumb, and he licks it away.  His stomach reminds him that it’s still mostly empty, and he turns his attention back to devouring the tortilla.

A tug at his pant leg brings his attention to the floor near his feet.  A sticky-fingered infant is sitting on the floor, staring up at him with wide, dark eyes.  It gurgles gleefully at him, and spouts a string of unintelligible gibberish.

Castiel has never been around babies before, but when the child holds its arms up to him, he interprets the message clearly enough.  Uncertain whether it’s a good idea, but unable to say no to the wet, gummy smile, Castiel shoves the last piece of tortilla in his mouth, and leans down to pick the baby up.

“Ah I see Benito has found a new friend,” Ellie says fondly.  She comes across the kitchen with a wet cloth, and cleans Benito’s hands and face, then gives him a kiss on the cheek.  She grins at Castiel when she straightens.  “Be careful with him.”

“Of course I will,” Castiel says, as he wraps an arm more firmly around the baby’s back to keep him from sliding off Castiel’s lap.  “I would never drop him.”

“He’s very wiggly, but that’s not what I meant,” Ellie says.  “He’s a little whirlwind, always moving about and getting in trouble.  He’ll have you pulling out your hair in frustration in no time.”

Castiel looks down at the baby with his cherub’s cheeks and bright eyed smile.  “He seems like a very well behaved young man,” he says.

Ellie snorts and returns to the stove.  “He is happy now, but he’s a little devil when he’s angry.”

“Is he yours?” Castiel offers Benito a small piece of tortilla, and marvels as the boy’s chubby fingers clumsily wrap around it and shove it into his mouth.  The drool Ellie had wiped away comes back with a vengeance, as Benito gums at the treat.

“No, I haven’t had any children of my own.”  Ellie smiles fondly.  “Not that I’d have time, with all the orphans we’ve taken in.”

Castiel thinks of all the children that had gathered to greet them outside, including the blonde boy and the redheaded girl.  “Is this an orphanage?”

“Not exactly.  But Cesar and Jesse often take in children who have lost their parents to--” she cuts off, and the spoon she’d been stirring in the pot goes still for a moment.  “--to very bad circumstances,” she eventually finishes.

“I see.”  

Castiel looks down at the boy in his arms, and thinks about Magda.  Would she be happier here than with the family that took her in?  

“So, why do you come here with the Winchesters?” Ellie asks.

Castiel gives Benito another chunk of tortilla, and wonders how much he should share.  He decides to go for a vague answer.  “I am looking for a man.  Dean knows where to find him.”

“In these mountains?” Ellie asks with a frown.  She answers her own question.  “I have heard the stories about Dean.  There was a time when he hid in these mountains.  When he rode with… a very bad man.”

That is a very broad understatement.  “Yes, I know,” he says, without elaborating.

But he can see that Ellie is smart.  She gives him a long calculating look.  “You’re a hunter?” she asks after a moment.

Castiel’s head comes up in surprise.  “I… yes.”

He waits for a barrage of new questions, but she only nods curtly.  “I understand.”

The silence lengthens in the warm kitchen, broken only by the hiss of cooking food, the occasional clatter of a pot, and the soft gurglings of the baby.  

“You mean you really can cook, Ellie?  Have you been holding out on me and Sam all this time?”

Castiel looks up to find Dean standing in the kitchen’s arched doorway.  He meets Castiel’s eyes, and there’s a strange contemplative expression on his handsome features as he glances from Castiel to the baby balanced on his lap.

“You’re welcome to cook for yourself,” Ellie reprimands, even though there’s a smile in her eyes.

Dean presses a hand over his heart.  “But I’m a _guest_ , Ellie!  You wouldn’t make a guest fend for themself, would you?”

“You know you’re family, and not just a guest.”  She gives him a mischievous look as she sets aside her wooden spoon.  She crosses the kitchen and scoops up Benito, then thrusts him into Dean’s arms.  “Which means you can help around here more, instead of just spending time with the men and their horses.”

Dean takes the squirming baby, and his face twists into a disgusted expression.  “He’s wet!”

“Si,” Ellie shrugs.  “It happens.  Take care of it.”

Benito lets out a loud squall as he arches his back, fists clenched, and his face pinched into a huge pout.  He is not happy, and he intends to let everyone know it.

Castiel fully expects Dean to hand the baby back to her, or plop him down on the kitchen floor.  It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Dean refuses to have anything at all to do with the damp child, who, based on the way his face is scrunching up, is not pleased with his present circumstances.  

But Dean does neither of those things.  He tucks the infant into the crook of his arm with practiced ease, and distracts Benito with another piece of tortilla to chew on.  “All right, where do you keep dry pants for this little muchacho?” Dean asks while he and the baby carry on with a mock battle over the tortilla.

“In the basket.”

Castiel sees where Ellie gestures, and goes to grab a few of the clean cloths.  He brings them to Dean and peers at him curiously.

Dean takes the cloths and then with surprising competence, he settles the squirming baby down on a wide bench under the kitchen window.  While Benito kicks his legs and waves his arms, and generally has a wonderful time, Dean cleans him and fits him with a dry diaper.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Castiel asks, impressed.

Dean looks up and gives him one of the rare, dazzling smiles that completely transforms his face, making him look far younger and softer than he really is.  The sun coming through the windows catches on his features, highlighting his freckles, turning the tips of his lashes gold, and reflecting against specks of copper hiding within the green.  “Mostly I learned with Sammy.  Changed plenty of his dirty diapers when he was shorter than me.”

The reminder of their difficult childhood softens Castiel, and Dean’s smile turns slightly melancholy.

“Ellie!” Amara exclaims from the doorway.  “What can you be thinking, having our guest change the baby?”  She quickly scoots between Castiel and Dean and takes the baby in her arms.  “It’s not a chore for a man,” she adds in a soft, breathy voice as she looks at Dean from beneath long lashes.  “I will take him, and then perhaps you would like to see our horses?”

“Amara, there will be plenty of time for that later,” Cesar says as he also enters the kitchen.  Another large man, follows him.  He’s an anglo, with a shaved head, and a salt and pepper beard.  He smiles widely when his eyes land on Dean.  “Take Benito outside for a bit, so he can get some sunshine before dinner, eh?”

Clearly displeased that she’s being shooed off, Amara pouts but does as she’s told.

“Ah, Dios,” Cesar gazes heavenward.  “Spare me from young women with hungry hearts.”  

Castiel frowns at his words.  But when he thinks about the way Amara looks at Dean, he thinks he understands what Cesar is bemoaning.  Once again, a spike of jealousy digs into his belly.  But he ignores it when Cesar introduces him to the man with him.

“Castiel, this is Jesse Cuevas,” Cesar says.  Then adds meaningfully, “My husband.”

The last makes Castiel hesitate and he can see the way the men’s eyes darken dangerously.  He realizes that he may be giving them a fully incorrect impression with his reaction.  So he stretches out a hand to Jesse and gives him a warm smile.  “It is good to meet you, Jesse.”

Jesse accepts the handshake, but eyes Castiel warily.  “You as well, Castiel.”

The tension is broken by Ellie.  “If any of you want to have supper tonight, you boys better get out of my kitchen.”

“Come, we’ll share a drink,” Cesar says.

“I’d like that.”  And he would.  Other than Dean, Castiel has never met men who share his inclinations, and he’d very much like to get to know them.  

“I’m going to get cleaned up,” Dean says.  He wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulders in a companionable half-hug.  “Try not to scare off my friend, eh?  Cas is a good guy, and I like having him around.”

That relaxes both of the men further, and they guide Castiel into the corner with the overstuffed chairs.  Castiel catches a glimpse of Dean smiling at them.  He winks one green eye, and then he disappears, leaving Castiel flustered and confused.

Jesse catches Castiel’s blush, and raises a questioning brow at Castiel.  “You and Dean are good friends?”

Castiel wouldn’t have said so a few weeks ago.  And the term doesn’t exactly fit now, but he doesn’t know how to explain what they are, even if that were information he’s willing to share with these men that he barely knows.  “I suppose so,” he murmurs.

Cesar jumps in to ask questions about Castiel, which he answers as truthfully as possible.  It’s much easier to talk about his career as a Pinkerton agent than it is to think about his relationship with Dean, or the contemplative looks Jesse gives him whenever Dean’s name is brought up.


	22. Chapter 22

Every time Castiel thinks he’s starting to see the full picture of Dean Winchester, he’s given glimpses of depths he hadn’t imagined.

While Cesar plies them with mugs of sweet, home-brewed beer called tesquino, Dean is lighter and more open than Castiel has ever seen him.  He swaps hunting stories with Cesar and Jesse, rolling his eyes fondly whenever Sam interjects with a sarcastic comment about foolhardiness.  

When the smaller children are present, he tells even taller tales, and they watch him with wide eyed wonder.  One that had to be coaxed into saying hello to Dean because he’d been brought to the ranch in the years since the last time the Winchesters visited, ends up snuggled in Dean’s lap.  The boy contentedly sucks his thumb, his eyes flicking from face to face as the conversations flow around him.  He whines a little when Jesse tries to extract him from Dean’s arms to take him into the kitchen for supper.  

It doesn’t surprise Castiel when Dean simply stands and carries the boy with him, a trail of children toddling after him.

“He’s like the Pied Piper,” Sam says with a chuckle when he sees Castiel gazing after them.

“Children can sense he is a good man,” Cesar adds warmly.  “And that he truly cares about them.  He would be a good father if he ever chose to stay in one place long enough to have a family.”

Castiel’s mind conjures up a faceless woman holding Dean’s swaddled child in her arms, and something heavy sinks in his belly.  

Sam scoffs lightly into his mug of beer.  “Dean isn’t likely to give up hunting any time soon.”

He’s not looking at Castiel, and seems to be directing the comment to Cesar.  But the stone in Castiel’s belly grows heavier.

“No, I can’t imagine he will,” Cesar says.  “But that doesn’t mean he can’t have a family.”

“And I can’t imagine that Dean would want to leave a wife and children behind while he risks his life, and leaving them alone in the world,” Castiel says.  When Cesar and Sam both look at him with raised eyebrows, Castiel realizes how firmly he’d spoken.  He sits back further in his chair, and adds more evenly “I have not known him as long as you two have, of course.  I may be wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” Sam says softly.

“And a family is not necessarily a wife and children,” Cesar adds.  “Jesse became my family many years before we built this ranch together and began taking in children.”

Castiel’s curiosity about Cesar and Jesse’s relationship is easier to focus on than the subject of Dean’s future.  “You’re… married?”

“Not in the eyes of the church,” Cesar says with a wry smile.  “But I believe God blesses our union.  Why else would He have brought us together when we needed each other most?”

“How did you meet?”

“Our paths crossed while hunting a demon.” Cesar smiles fondly.  “We became partners in hunting, and eventually in life.”

“You don’t hunt anymore?” Castiel asks, fascinated.

Cesar shakes his head, then tilts it in Sam’s direction.  “These good men helped us track down the monsters that killed Jesse’s only family; his brother.  Once that hunt was done, we came back here to rebuild my family’s ranch.  Dean surprised us with a gift of horses from his Appaloosa herd.  And young Amara.”

He doesn’t explain why the ranch needed to be rebuilt, and Castiel doesn’t ask.  He’s learning that those who become hunters do so for very personal reasons, and he knows from experience that speaking of them brings up painful emotions.  

Cesar launches into a story about the struggles of ranching, and Castiel is grateful for the subject change.  It allows him time with his thoughts.  On Dean.  On the nature of family.

Thinking of the nameless, faceless woman that Dean makes him drink the last of his tesquino a little too quickly.  It must go to his head, because he starts thinking of himself in her place.  Maybe not with a babe in arms, that would be ridiculous and impossible.  But now that he has met Cesar and Jesse, he wonders if spending his life with a man that he loves isn’t as impossible as he’d previously believed.

Not that he’s in love with Dean.  

Certainly not.  Dean is his friend.  And until they destroy Alistair, Dean is his partner.  _Hunting_ partner.  The attraction he feels for Dean, and seems to be returned, is not love.  It’s lust, which will probably burn itself out once it is slaked.

That possibility feels even more wrong than imagining Dean with a wife, but he’s saved from having to think about it any more by Dean and Jesse returning from the kitchen with children in arms or in tow, ready to be tucked into bed.

Getting the youngest children to bed is a full family affair, and once it’s done, Ellie announces a late supper for the adults.  They’re joined by several of the vaqueros, and Amara is also allowed to join them since she’s not exactly a child.

The food Ellie prepared is delicious.  Some of it is very spicy, but all of it is wonderful.  

There’s a continuous flow of tesquino, and a refreshing drink made from lemons grown in the ranch’s small orchard.  Castiel tries it himself and is immediately enamored.  It’s just sweet enough to compliment the spicy food, but the tart juice quenches his thirst.  

Lively conversation engulfs the table.  The young men Cesar and Jesse employ to help with the ranch work are curious and eager to hear stories from outsiders.  They flood the brothers with questions about where they’ve been, and their adventures.  Dean and Sam are careful to downplay their brushes with the law, but are honest about their hunts.  

They’re careful not to romanticize their lives though.  Between stories of colorful people they’ve met, and the challenges of living on the road, they speak solemnly of the constant threat and danger.  Dean holds their attention the most, and he could easily spin tales of grand adventure, but instead he talks about constantly having to watch his back because some young gunfighter might want to make a name for himself, and the stress that can cause.

Amara watches Dean with adoring eyes.  She hangs on to every word he says, and adds her own questions to the ones he receives from the vaqueros.  Castiel can see that she’s deeply infatuated with him, and while the young men seem to understand what he’s warning them of, Amara only seems to grow more smitten.

Cesar eventually shushes them, admonishing them to let their guests eat in peace.  He starts a discussion with one of the men about looking for stray horses in the canyons that surround the ranch.  Smaller conversations rise up around the table, and it’s a noisy and lighthearted affair.

It’s obvious that even the hired help is treated as family, and how much everyone cares for each other, despite not sharing blood relations.  He sees how open Cesar and Jesse are with their affection toward each other, and how no one thinks their behavior is odd or deviant.  When Jesse puts his hand over Cesar’s and they share a smile, Castiel averts his eyes, unable to process the deep love he sees in their eyes.  

His eyes flit to Dean, sitting next to him and laughing at something Ellie is telling him, and he wonders.  Could he do the same?  Put his hand on Dean, draw his attention, and bask in the warmth of his smile as if he has every right to do so?

A warning tingle in his fingertips makes him curl them tighter around his mug of sweetened lemon juice to keep from reaching out.  

“So Castiel,” Jesse says, pulling Castiel abruptly from his contemplations.  “Cesar says you are here looking for a man?”

“I cannot imagine you should have to go searching for a man,” Ellie murmurs into her napkin, which makes laughter erupt around the table.  Dean nudges him with an elbow and winks at him.

The attention, and the appreciation in Dean’s eyes, causes Castiel’s face to heat more than any of the spicy food.  

“I’m looking for…” he glances around at the young faces turned to him with curiosity, and decides that he would rather save them from worrying about the evil so close to their home.  “...an outlaw.  Dean has knowledge of his hideouts and has agreed to be my guide.”

He catches Ellie’s small nod of approval.  Jesse’s sharp gaze flicks between them, and Castiel can see that he understands there is more to the story, but he chooses not to probe for more information for the moment.  Despite sharing their past as hunters with the vaqueros, there are still things that Cesar and Jesse obviously don’t want to involve them in either.  

Amara does not sense the silent communication among the adults.  “And who are you to be hunting outlaws?  Are you a bounty hunter?”

“He’s a Pinkerton agent,” Sam says.  He meets Castiel’s eyes across the table, and gives him a wry smile.  “On official business.”

The reminder of Castiel’s argument with the Gordon makes him smile as well.

“And you ride with hunters to find a simple outlaw?” Amara sneers.  

“Amara!” Ellie hisses.

But the girl doesn’t heed the warning, shrugging and giving Castiel an unimpressed look.  “I am simply saying that you must not be a very capable lawman.”

“I’m hunting Alistair White,” Castiel says.  It’s probably not a good idea to reveal that he’s hunting a demon, but he sees no reason why he shouldn’t give a name.  As far as most people know, demons don’t exist.

He should have known that these people would know more than just the name on a wanted poster.  Silence falls over the table.  Ellie crosses herself and whispers a prayer, while Cesar and Jesse sit up in their chairs to pin Castiel with hard stares.

“He killed Castiel’s brother,” Dean says into the silence.  Under the table, Castiel feels the reassuring press of Dean’s thigh against his.

An unrecognizable look passes between Cesar and Jesse.  Then Jesse nods, his expression softening with sympathy.  “I understand.”

It’s Ellie who breaks the uncomfortable silence that follows, by quietly rebuking Amara in Spanish for her lack of manners.  More serving dishes are passed around and talk turns to crops, colts being sold for a handsome profit, and the early winter being predicted by one of the children who is always right about such things.  

“Please, Señor Jameson,” Amara says politely some time later, holding out a shallow dish, “you must try some of these.”  

Castiel hesitates.  He’d already pushed his stomach past the point of comfort, and has only been sipping at his drink while the conversation flowed around him.  “What are they?”

“Cactus pickles.  Ellie makes them, and they’re delicious.”

He looks down at the pickles.  They do look delicious, like everything else he’s tried so far.  And this is the first time Amara has acknowledged him with any sort of friendliness.  He doesn’t want to do anything to bring back her hostility.

He reaches out for the plate, but Dean’s hand on his arm stops him.  “Cas, don’t.  Those are hot pickled peppers.  They’ll burn a hole through the roof of your mouth.”

Castiel meets Amara’s guileless eyes.  She’s either been dismissive of him, or resentful from their first meeting.  It baffled him before, but now that he’s seen the way she watches Dean with hungry eyes, he thinks he understands what has been behind her behavior.  

Amara lifts one shoulder in an innocent shrug.  “I thought that Señor Jameson would like to try them.”

It’s a taunt, and a dare.

Everyone else, including Dean and Sam, had eaten the peppers.  And so far he’s enjoyed the spicy foods he’s eaten, so he sees no reason to accept the silent challenge in Amara’s eyes.

He takes one of the peppers and bites into it, chewing carefully.  It’s juicy and faintly sweet.  At first he suspects that he’s the butt of another of Dean’s jokes--he hasn’t forgotten the scorpion story--but then the faint spiciness of the pepper bursts into a searing heat on his tongue.

His throat tries to close, and his eyes begin to water.  The heat radiates outward, and he feels his whole face start to burn so badly that he wouldn’t be surprised if smoke starts leaking from his ears.  

But he’ll be damned if he lets anyone know how bad it really is.  Especially Amara.  She watches him closely, barely concealing her glee.

“Are you all right?” Dean asks.  His fingers close over Castiel’s thigh under the table.  Through watering eyes, Castiel sees Sam peering at him with wide, worried eyes.

Castiel swallows the pepper in his mouth, and regrets it when he feels it slide down his throat like a piece of burning coal.  But he forces a smile.  “Of course.”

Cesar watches him with keen appreciation.  “It is hot, no?”

“Just a little.”  Castiel is proud of the nonchalant tone he’s managing.  He exhales slowly, and wonders how he’s not breathing hellfire across the table.

“ _A little?_ ” Cesar guffaws.  He slaps a hand against Jesse’s shoulder.  “He’s doing much better than you did, querido!”

Jesse snorts and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.  “A man who hunts demons and eats hot peppers?  You should keep this one, Dean.”

Dean chokes slightly.  He casts an unreadable look at Castiel.

“To the lawman who hunts demons and eats peppers!” Cesar says jovially, raising his mug for a toast.

Castiel plays along, even though the lemon drink does nothing to quench the fire in his mouth.  Thankfully dinner comes to an end quickly after that, and he’s able to slip outside to get a breath of fresh air.  

The raging inferno in his mouth has died down somewhat but he still feels like he’s holding hot coals on his tongue.  He walks toward the corral, gulping the cool evening breeze.  It only provides some small relief to his heated skin.

A shape steps out of the shadows near the cabin, and resolves into the shape of a man.  Dean strides closer and gives Castiel a worried once over.  

“I’m sorry about Amara,” he says softly.  “She seems to have taken a disliking to you.”

“There’s no need--” Castiel pauses to draw in some cool air, “--to apologize.  I chose to eat the damn thing.”

Dean gives him a crooked smile.  “I remember the first time Cesar did that to me.  They are a bit hot.”

The enormity of that understatement makes Castiel laugh, although it comes out more like a wheeze.  His mouth still burns, and his eyes won’t stop watering, but the laughter eases some of his discomfort.  “I think my teeth are going to melt,” he admits.

Dean’s deep chuckle makes the pain almost worth it.  He holds out a mug.  “Here, this will help cool it down.”

Castiel takes it and sniffs at the contents.  It’s the same sweet beer that has been flowing so liberally around the table, that he’d turned down in favor of the lemon drink.  He takes a sip and sighs as the burn fades slightly.  “Thank you,” he says before taking a larger drink.

“Puts the fire out, huh?” Dean asks.  “Cesar gave me tesquino, then fed me more peppers.”

“And gave you more beer after that?” Castiel guesses.  “How drunk did you get?”

“ _Very,_ ” Dean confirms with a grin.  “That was before I knew how strong the stuff is.  It can be deadly.”

“As deadly as those peppers?” Castiel snorts.  “Pickles indeed.”

Regret pulls at Dean’s mouth, revealing his dimples.  “I don’t know what got into Amara.  The little girl I remember was always so sweet, and she would never have done something like that.”

Castiel takes another sip of beer, relishing its sweetness as much as the soothing effect.  He can actually feel his lips again, which is a vast improvement.  “I think that may be precisely the problem.”

“What is?”

He gives Dean an even look.  “She’s not a little girl anymore.  And she’s beginning to look at men with a woman’s eyes.”

Dean recoils, which Castiel finds gratifying.  “She’s sixteen years old, for Christ’s sake.”

“Didn’t you feel like a man at sixteen?”  He nods when Dean grunts in reluctant agreement.  “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but she looks at _you_ as a woman looks at a man.”

Dean rolls his eyes, unwilling to concede.  “And what would you know of how a woman looks at a man?”

“I suspect it is much how I look at you.”  Castiel meets Dean’s gaze steadily.  He isn’t sure if it’s the tesquino, or the near death experience from that infernal pepper that is giving him the courage to speak so openly of what he wants.

Wordlessly, Dean takes the mug and sets it on a nearby fencepost, then steps even closer to Castiel.  With the sun down, and the light from the cabin at his back, his face is shadowed, but Castiel can’t miss the intent in his expression.

He’s so close that Castiel can feel the heat from his body, and Castiel sways forward searching for more.  He’s a little unsteady on his feet, but he can’t blame it on the beer.  No, it’s Dean that intoxicates him.

Dean’s arm comes around his waist, steadying Castiel against his chest.  His fingers press under Castiel’s chin, tilting his face up.  “I’m real glad for that,” he says softly, his breath warm against Castiel’s lips.  

Or is it the lingering heat from the peppers?

More heat pours through him when Dean’s mouth covers his, and it’s definitely _not_ the peppers.  This kiss is the same sweet pressure from the previous night, slow and tender.

The world fades into oblivion around them, and Dean becomes the only solid thing that Castiel can cling to.  Dean’s body is fiery hot as he pulls Castiel hard against his chest, confirming that the heat has nothing to do with the peppers or the mind-numbing tesquino.

Dean.  It has always been Dean.  He’s like the sun, filling Castiel’s world with light and warmth.  Despite the anger, and the clash of wills that plagued the early days of their acquaintance, Castiel has turned to him like a flower to the life giving sun all along.

Castiel’s fingers close over Dean’s arms, digging into the thick muscle.  He tries to press impossibly closer.

“Castiel.” Dean’s voice is hoarse, shaking with need and something else Castiel can’t identify.

It calls to a powerful and terrifying thing growing inside him.  Startled, he tries to pull away, afraid of being completely overwhelmed by the feelings Dean stirs in him.  “Dean,” he breathes into the narrow gulf between them.  “What… what is this?”

God, _what is this?_ Dean thinks.  It’s passion unlike anything he’s ever known, but he’s not dragging Cas toward the nearest bed to have his way with him because this, _this,_ the weight of Cas leaning into him, the scent of tesquino on his breath, the starlight reflecting in his eyes.  This closeness is what he’s craving the most.

Instead of answering, Dean cradles Cas’ face with reverent fingers and kisses him again.  Cas melts back into him, and Dean revels in the way he responds.  Tentative, but with a breathless need that echoes Dean’s own.

His tongue flicks against the seam of Dean’s lips, lighting a fire inside him that threatens to burn down to the foundations of his soul.  Despite Cas’ lack of experience, his kisses go to Dean’s head faster than the tesquino he’d consumed so freely during dinner.  It’s tempting to blame his reaction on the alcohol, but when Cas’ teeth sink into his lower lip, he can’t deny the passion Cas rouses in him.

Stubborn, frustrating, beautiful Cas.

The kiss the night before had been a mistake.  As had the night on the desert.  This is a mistake too, but he doesn’t care anymore.  He wants Cas more than he’s ever wanted anyone.  

It’s terrifying.  Confusing.

Thrilling.  Intoxicating.

Cas is all hard muscle and power in Dean’s arms.  He could shove Dean away, defend himself from any unwanted touch, but all that strength is dormant and pliable as he gives himself over to Dean’s kisses in a way that is humbling.  Dean could draw Cas to the ground and have him right here and--

Even as he thinks of the things Cas would allow him to do, he realizes that they’re no longer alone.  Anger, hard and volatile, rises up against whoever dares to intrude.  Before he can warn Cas, protect him from any embarrassment, the door of the main cabin closes loudly behind them, causing Cas to pull away abruptly.

“Dean?  Where are you?”  It’s Amara.  And now that he’s paying attention, Dean can hear the soft sultriness in her voice.

Cas’ eyes, still dark with desire, snap to Dean’s.  He curses internally as the haze of passion fades away, replaced with focus and reason.  Cas takes a step back, and Dean tries not to let him slip away, to catch his wrist or even the edge of his shirt, but Cas avoids being caught.

“I should go back to the house.”

“Cas, wait.”

Amara steps out of the shadow of the cabin.  The starlight reveals the way her eyes flit coldly over Cas, but warm when they land on Dean.  “There you are.”

He sees her confusion when he turns away to chase after Cas.  The Pinkerton is quick as the wind as he strides away, but Dean catches up easily, grabbing him gently but firmly by the arm and pulling him around.

“Cas, I want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

It’s a simple question, but it leaves Dean flummoxed.  What _does_ he want to talk to Cas about?

He’d much rather kiss him again.  Drag him into a hidden alcove and show him with his mouth and hands just how little interest Amara holds for him.

He wants… “Cas, I…”

His hesitation is too long, and Cas reads something in the silence that Dean doesn’t intend.  Cas’ expression closes off, and he pries Dean’s fingers from his arm.  “Amara’s waiting for you.”

And then he’s gone, slipping away into the shadows.  Leaving Dean struggling to understand the hollow ache watching Cas walk away leaves in his chest.

* * *

Amara’s voice carries on the night air, haunting Castiel as he leaves Dean behind.  Jealousy burns through his blood.  The faceless woman in his mind who gives Dean a family takes on Amara’s features.  He realizes that Dean may not be interested in her now, due to her age, but in a few years, when Dean is ready to retire, he may see her in a whole different light.  And there are things she can give him that Castiel never can.

His mind whirls with fabricated images of Dean and an older Amara.  Her arms around his shoulders, and Dean looking at her with the same heat he’d been looking at Castiel with just minutes ago.  It’s unreasonable, he _knows_ it is, but he can’t force the idea out of his head.

A realization makes him stumble over nothing, and he braces himself with a hand against the cabin’s outer wall.  The wood is smooth and cool under his palm, and it grounds him his spinning thoughts grind to a halt, settling on a single fact.

What he feels for Dean is something more profound than lust.  Goes deeper than attraction.

A girlish laugh behind him, drives him back into motion.  He slips around to the cabin’s back entrance, hoping to avoid meeting anyone before he reaches his room.  But as soon as he enters the kitchen, he’s discovered.  

“Are you all right, Castiel?” Ellie asks.  She’s seated at the table that had been covered in dishes she’d been preparing for dinner, in the same chair he’d used while holding Benito.  The table is empty now, except for a delicate looking teapot, and the matching cup sheltered between her palms.

“Yes,” he replies, too quickly.  “I’m quite fine, thank you.  I just stepped outside for some fresh air.”

Ellie nods slowly, humming thoughtfully before asking “Was it the peppers, or Dean Winchester?”

Castiel’s heart picks up its pace.  “I beg your pardon?”

Ellie grins knowingly.  “Ah, so it’s Dean.  He has that effect on people, doesn’t he?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to warn her about Amara’s behavior, but thinks better of it.  He doesn’t want to make her dislike him more by risking getting her in trouble.  Besides, Amara may be young, but he has seen many young women her age married.  Ellie may not even disapprove of her pursuit of Dean.

“Come,” Ellie says, gesturing for him to join her at the table.  “Have some tea.  It will clear your head, and we can talk.”

Talking isn’t what he wants to do at all, but refusing the invitation would be rude.  He won’t repay the hospitality he’s received in that way.

Ellie gets up long enough to retrieve another porcelain mug, and fills it with tea.  The pot and the cups are nothing like the thick crockware that had been used with dinner.  It looks like something expensive, probably shipped from back east, or maybe inherited from an older generation.  The delicate porcelain fits perfectly within her tapered fingers.

Even though he has a lifetime of experience with taking tea in richly appointed parlors, the porcelain feels fragile in his own hands.  It makes him think about how long he’s been away from cities.  From home.

And yet, sitting in the kitchen with Ellie, with the fire turning to embers in the hearth, he feels more at home than he thinks he would if he were to take the long trip back to Philadelphia to visit Aunt Naomi.  He’s not sure if it’s Ellie herself, or just the love and care that permeates the whole cabin, but he appreciates it nonetheless.  

Ellie is quiet until after they’ve had a few sips of tea.  Then she smiles warmly at Castiel.  “I am not really Cesar’s sister,” she announces.  She chuckles at Castiel’s surprise.  “Like many of the people living on the rancho, I was adopted into this family when Dean and Sam brought me here.  Cesar tells strangers I am his sister so they will not question a single woman living with two men.”

He isn’t sure if he should ask, but Ellie seems to be expecting it from him.  “What happened to your family?”

Her smile turns sad.  “My mother passed, a few years ago.  Peacefully, in her sleep.  My father--” she wrinkles her nose in a wry smile.  “He was not a good husband.  We survived without him for most of my childhood.”

She goes on to talk about their lives on another ranch.  Her mother served a rich Anglo family who treated her with more respect than most servants received.  They did not judge her for being a single mother with a small child to feed, and they allowed her to keep Ellie with her as she worked.  She tells of her mother’s sudden illness when she still had not reached her tenth year, and a man with an Anglo accent and red eyes offering her a way to save her mother’s life in exchange for only ten more years of life.

“You sold your soul?” Castiel asks softly.

“A worthy exchange,” Ellie insists.  “I was a child.  I did not yet know how short a decade really is, and it seemed like a whole lifetime.”

She goes on to tell how she’d accepted her fate.  But on the final night, when she could hear the hellhounds howling in the distance, and saw monsters in the faces of those she loved, the Winchesters arrived on a hunt.  They destroyed the hellhounds that came to fetch her soul, and warded her against being found, until they could bring her and her mother to the safety of Cesar’s ranch.  

Most of the valley is protected by wardings, hiding their home from evil eyes.  They carved the symbols into stones and placed them around the borders of Cesar’s land.  She can never leave the rancho, but she has everything she needs and sees no reason to go anywhere else.

“They look much like those,” she says, nodding toward the rosary wrapped around Castiel’s wrist.  

Castiel fingers the beads, pressing his thumb hard against the symbols carved into the cross.  “But what about your soul?” Castiel asks.  “What will happen when you die?”

Her smile fades, but she doesn’t look away.  “I suspect it still belongs to the demon,” she says simply.  “Unless someone can find a way to convince the demon to release me from the deal.”  She shrugs, and her smile comes back, even if it is weaker than before.  “I do not have regrets for myself.  Please do not have them for me.”

Castiel reaches across the table and puts a hand on her wrist.  They share a warm smile, before he pulls back.

“But ahhh, how can I tell you?” Ellie sighs wistfully.  “Dean was young so handsome.  His hair was lighter then, like white gold.  And his eyes… so green.”  Her wistfulness turns teasing.  “He can be very charming.” 

Once upon a time, Castiel would have argued that point.  But now he can only agree with a laugh.  “He can be, yes.”

“I fell in love,” Ellie goes on to explain.  “I would have never dreamed of loving an Anglo, but there was something about Dean… something reckless and exciting.”

If Castiel were anywhere else, he would keep his thoughts to himself.  But in the home of two men who love and claim each other as husbands, he knows he won’t be judged harshly.  “There still is,” he says.

Ellie laughs.  “Indeed! You understand.”

He certainly does.  More than he would have thought possible.  Ellie’s voice fades into the background and he struggles once again with the enormity of what he feels for Dean.  This time, his mind settles more easily into acceptance.  This is the new world in which he lives now.  One created by and inhabited by Dean Winchester.  Castiel could more easily deny the existence of the sky than how the landscape of his heart has been so altered by the Hunter.

Ellie’s voice pulls him back to the present.  “He was the gentlest, kindest young man I had ever known.  He was so good with animals, they know they can trust him.  And you have seen how he is with the children.  Any woman would be infatuated.  He’s always been like that.” She shakes her head, and adds softly, “And yet there has always been a sadness inside him.”

He wonders what she knows about Dean’s past.  Dean has many reasons to be sad.  Or to be angry, vicious, lashing out at a world that has taken more from him than it has given.

“Dean was the one who stayed with me, fending off hellhounds,” Ellie says.  “He protected and comforted me until Sam killed the monsters.  They worked as a team, but without Dean there to keep me from panicking, I may have run out of the protective circle and been killed anyway.  He was my savior.” She spreads her hands.  “I’m still here today, many years later, because of him.”

Castiel smiles.  “I’m very glad.”

She laughs.  “Dean is not the only charmer around here.” She winks at him when he blushes.

Clearing his throat, he asks the question that has been at the forefront of his mind for most of her story.  “Do… do you still love him?”

“As a brother,” she responds.

Castiel releases the breath he’d been holding.  Ellie smiles knowingly, and continues her story.  She tells of pining for the green-eyed Anglo after he first left her on the rancho.  But during the time between his infrequent visits, the love in her heart mellowed into familial fondness over the years.

“He has a great heart, and kindness in his soul,” Ellie sighs.  “I was young then.  It was very easy for a young girl to fall in love with such a man.  A girl such as myself… or someone as passionate as Amara.”

Castiel’s eyes fasten on Ellie’s.  Somehow she’s known all along what is bothering him.

“Amara is very much like I was at that age.  Romantic and easily infatuated, with little understanding of men.  And Dean makes it difficult not to love him.”

Castiel holds back a snort.  Dean is quite capable of being a bastard when he wants to be, but given enough time to get to know him, to see the man behind the dangerous outlaw…

Well, he can’t really disagree with Ellie’s assessment of Dean’s character.  Not anymore.

“And he also loves very deeply,” Ellie says.  “He accepts many into his family.  I have no doubt that he will be a part of _this_ family for as long as he lives, no matter how far from home he wanders.  His heart is big enough to hold the whole world in it.” She pauses, and gives Castiel a meaningful look.  “But when he finds _true love,_ the person who earns that from him will have his everlasting devotion.”

He notices that she avoids stating that the person who earns Dean’s love is a woman.  A spark catches in his heart, catching and flaring into the light of hope.

Ellie watches him with perceptive eyes.  She must see something glowing from within him, because she smiles with supreme satisfaction.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he says, at a loss as to how else to respond. 

“I am right,” she says firmly.  “Do not concern yourself with Amara.  She is like a daughter to Dean.  He will send her away.”

They sit in silence for a few more minutes before rising from their chairs together.  Ellie walks Castiel to his room, but lingers near his doorway.

“I wish you were not going on this journey to the mountains.  It will be very dangerous.”

“Thank you, Ellie,” Castiel says softly, touched by the depth of her concern after only knowing him for a single day.  “But I must do this.  I can’t let that demon continue terrorizing innocent people.”

“I understand.” She pats his arm gently, her fingers lingering, and her eyes full of warmth.  “At least you will have the Winchesters with you.  There is no one better to have at your side.”  She leans up onto her toes and kisses him on the cheek.  “May God go with you.  Goodnight, Castiel.”

After she walks away, Castiel shuts the door and leans against it, eyes closed.  The day has been very long, draining both physically and emotionally, and he’s tired in both body and mind.  

With a sigh, he pushes himself away from the door.  He removes his borrowed clothing, and collapses onto the narrow bed.

Sleep does not come, despite his exhaustion.  His mind keeps returning to Dean’s kisses, while turning Ellie’s words over and over in his mind.  

Could he be the one to earn Dean’s love?  Not the love of family, or brotherhood, but that of a man and a lover.  Would he ever be able to bask in Dean’s love the way Cesar and Jesse bask in each other’s?

He touches his lips, remembering the tenderness of Dean’s against them.

The room is warm and stuffy, and his mind won’t settle, leaving him restless.  Giving up on sleep, he rises and pulls his clothing back on.  He leaves his shirt untied at the neck, and untucked at the waist, uncaring of propriety as he slips through the silent cabin and out into the night, where the air is cool against his skin.  A gentle breeze dries the thin layer of sweat coating his skin, and sending a chill down the back of his neck when he feels its touch brush through his damp hair.

Above the rim of the mountains, the moon hangs fat and full, filling the yard between the cabins with silvery light and inky shadows.  Nearby a light burns in the second cabin.  Castiel catches a few words of conversation from the open door.  Castiel doesn’t understand most of it because he’s still working on his Spanish, but he thinks they’re swapping colorful tales of fast horses and and pretty young señoritas.

He crosses the yard to the closest coral and leans against the fence.  A shadow breaks away from the far side, and Baby approaches him at a slow walk.  When she drapes her head over the top of the fence, he strokes her soft muzzle.

“Hello, Baby,” he whispers.  “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”  

Her smoky fur blends into the darkness, but the lighter patches across her spotted rump, make him think of the huge patch of the sky that Emmanuel had taught him is called The Milky Way.

She responds to his query with a soft whicker, and nudges him until he gets the message and scratches around her ears.

“I’m glad we’re friends,” he tells her.  “I promise I won’t tell Dean that you like me though.  If you want to protect your reputation.”

Baby snorts, which he takes as agreement.  He smiles and moves his scratching to her other ear.

The faint ripple of a girl’s laughter carries on the warm night breeze.  It comes from the east end of the main cabin, along with a voice Castiel recognizes.

“Amara…”

The name is spoken low, but is unmistakably Dean.

A soft response in Spanish drifts from the shadows of the house.  Castiel looks around.  The bright moonlight illuminating the yard leaves him exposed.   He’s considering darting into the nearest shadows, but he’s frozen by what he hears next.

“Dean…” it’s said softly, imploringly.  “Por favor, querido.  Do not send me away.”

Castiel hears the soft tread of Dean’s boots, as Amara continues to whisper entreaties.  

“You should go back to your room now,” Dean says firmly.

“I don’t want to go back.  I want to be with you.”  Amara’s voice holds a faintly seductive pout.

There’s a sudden silence, and Castiel’s feet move without his conscious direction to.  He holds his breath as he inches his way through the moonlight to the corner of the cabin.

Dean and Amara stand in the shadows.  Even if he hadn’t heard their voices, they’d be recognizable.  Dean by his height, the wary stance, and the width of his shoulders.  Amara by the gleam of bare shoulders above her blouse, and the fall of raven hair down her back.

“Querido,” Amara whispers huskily as she stretches up on her toes, slipping her arms around Dean’s shoulders and pressing her slender body against his.  Then her mouth is on his in a long, impassioned kiss.

Castiel’s heart stutters to a stop, and he flinches at the pain.  His hand comes up to press over the ache in his chest, and he takes a step back.  He wants to turn away, to flee, but he can’t take his eyes away from the scene in front of him.

But then Dean is pushing Amara away.  Even in the shadows, his expression looks thunderous.  

“Don’t,” he says.  When she tries to ignore him and kiss him again, he grabs her by the shoulders and puts her at arm’s length.  “I said no, Amara.  I love you, but you are only a child to me.”

Castiel’s heart thumps once, and then again, and then its rhythm returns.  When he hears Amara’s soft sob, he quietly backs away.  There’s no reason to stay and witness her humiliation and sorrow.  

Before he can escape, Amara hisses an insult in Spanish and jerks out of Dean’s hands.  She runs around the corner of the cabin and straight into Castiel, nearly knocking them both to the ground.  When she realizes who is steadying her, she angrily wipes tears from her eyes, twists out of his gentle hold and dashes back into the house.

Castiel hears Dean sigh, and the crunch of his boots as he walks in the opposite direction.  It’s tempting to follow him.  To pick things up where they left off earlier.  But Castiel isn’t ready to face him right now.  Not after everything he’s learned about his own heart, and the depth of his feelings for Dean.

He needs time.

As he returns to the bedroom he’s borrowing from Amara, he’s smiling.  Danger still looms over their future.  But more than any other time in the years since he began his quest to avenge Emmanuel, he feels a fierce hope.


	23. Chapter 23

By the time Castiel manages to fall asleep, the stars have begun to fade from the sky.  His sleep is plagued by unpleasant dreams; the trip to bring his brother’s body back to Philadelphia, Alistair’s image laughing at him from walls plastered with wanted posters, and Dean walking away hand in hand with a faceless dark haired woman.

That dream wakes him with a start, and he blinks away from the sunlight filtering in through the room’s small window.  He sits up, and shakes his head to knock loose the lingering cobwebs of the dream. It leaves him mildly annoyed with himself, and he does his best to tamp down his illogical jealousy.  Dean turned Amara away. It was Castiel that Dean chose to kiss in the starlight.

He doesn’t really want to think about that either, not if he wants his sleep warm body to cool down so he can be presentable when he leaves the room.  Dressing in his own clothing, which is clean now, and left folded neatly on top of the rest of his belongings, is enough to encourage his blood to flow to the rest of his body, and he’s calmed down by the time he slips out the door.  

A visit to the kitchen provides him with a tortilla filled with beans to nibble on as he leaves the main cabin.  Shouts from the corral draw him in that direction as he licks his fingers clean. The vaqueros are moving horses from the paddock to the pastures to graze, while singling out several two year olds for training.

Two men stand outside the corral, watching the vaqueros work.  Castiel recognizes Cesar’s broad frame, as he gestures and hollers instructions to his men.  Sam towers next to him, gazing at the fine young horses.  

Castiel joins them, resting his arms on the top rail of the fence.  He exchanges pleasantries with Cesar and Sam, then turns his attention to the horses in the corral.

“They’re beautiful,” he says.  While he can recognize a good horse, he’s never paid much attention to them other than what is necessary to get him from place to place.  But since he’s met Dean, and seen Baby and the other Appaloosa’s he appreciates the beauty in well bred horses. And these ones are quite fine.

Sam agrees with a sunny smile.  “Yeah they are. It’s good to see them flourishing here.  Our dad would be real happy about it.” He gestures at a smoky filly that looks a lot like Baby.  “Dean’s going to love her.”

“I’m surprised he’s not out here with you.”

“Yeah that is weird,” Sam agrees.  He glances around, then shrugs. “He’s around somewhere.  Probably doing some chore that Ellie talked him into. Heaven forbid he relax a little.”

Castiel feels the itch to get to work as well, but it’s not helping around the ranch that interests him.  “When do you think we’ll be able to leave for the mountains?”

Sam shakes his head.  “After how hard we rode from the territories to get here, the horses are going to need at least a few days of rest.”

The news isn’t unexpected, but the delay still gnaws at Castiel.  “I hope Alistair doesn’t get so far ahead of us that we’ll never be able to find him.”

“Dean’ll find him,” Sam reassures grimly.  “Once he’s set his mind to a hunt, he won’t give up.”

Castiel appreciates Sam’s faith in his brother.  He decides to take a page from his book, and show some faith in Dean as well.  He can be patient for a few more days. The horses aren’t the only ones who could use the rest.

“So what do we do in the meantime?”

Cesar answers.  “Perhaps you like to ride one of our Appaloosas?  I have several that you are more than welcome to take.”

He’s surprised to find the idea intriguing.  The warm soak the previous day, and last night’s soft bed have done wonders for his tired body.  There was a time, mere weeks ago, when he thinks that he may have never ridden a horse again if given the opportunity.  But now, he’s eager for some exercise. And the solitude would be nice. “I’d like that,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Bueno.  I’ll have one of the boys saddle a horse for you.  Follow the base of the mountain along the river. It is well traveled by my vaqueros, so there is no danger.”

Sam agrees, adding “I’ve ridden it plenty of times, and the trail is good and clearly marked.  But I could go with you if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary, I won’t go far.”  He claps Sam on the shoulder, nad heads for the other corral to fetch a horse.

A short time later he rides from the ranch.  On his way to the river he catches a glimpse of Amara and some of her younger sisters.  She’s on her way toward the orchard, a large basket tucked under her arm, ready to be filled with more fruit from the trees.  Her expression is somber, but when she looks up at the sound of his horse, she gives him a sullen glare. Then she turns her face away and walks on.

Apparently she has decided he is to blame for Dean’s rejection last night.  It’s unfortunate, but he believes Ellie is right that Amara will eventually get over her infatuation.  And hopefully her animosity toward Castiel will diminish with time as well.

He finds the trail easily with the directions Cesar had given him.  It’s well worn from the horses being brought this way for the greener grasses in the mountain meadows.  The horse Castiel rides seems to know the trail as well, and is happy to stretch her legs out for a run when he urges her faster.

The air is crisp and clear, and the sun warms Castiel’s shoulders.  As the wind tugs at his hat and clothes, he can almost forget the cause of the restlessness that eats at him… almost.

* * *

“I just wanted you to know what happened,” Dean says at the end of his story when Ellie doesn’t say anything at first.  

She doesn’t explode with anger, not that he’d really expected her to, but she’s basically raised Amara as her own.  He wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to take a broom to him, even after learning that he turned down Amara’s advances.

Ellie rolls her eyes heavenward and mumbles a prayer for patience, but then she bestows an understanding smile on him.  “Amara’s behavior is not your fault, Dean.” She pauses thoughtfully, and a teasing gleam lights up her eyes. “Although, maybe you could try being less handsome around the señoritas, eh?”

Now that he knows for sure she isn’t going to chase him around the ranch with a broom, Dean relaxes and gives her his most charming grin.  “You know that’s impossible.”

“Ayyyy, you dog!” She flicks him with her towel, laughing as he barely escapes.  “Get out of my kitchen before I find work for you.”

Dean gives her a lazy salute, but he doesn’t leave just yet.  He leans down to kiss her on the brow. “Thank you for understanding, Ellie.”

She smiles and puts a hand on his arm, rubbing comfortingly.  “I trust you,” she says warmly. “And so does Castiel.”

He’s a little stunned by that comment.  Is he really that obvious?

Ellie shoos him out of the kitchen, and he saunters slowly across the yard.  He’d waited to talk to her until everyone had left the house because he didn’t want to embarass Amara by bringing up her behavior in front of witnesses.  If she were an adult, he would have said nothing, but despite Castiel’s assertion that she’s a woman, he still thinks of her as a child. Which is why he’d approached Ellie to talk to her about what happened.

It’s a relief that she doesn’t blame him.  Even though he doesn’t visit as often as he’d like, he considers the people here family, and he’d hate to ruin that relationship over something as simple as turning down a girl’s advances.  Amara hadn’t gone running to Ellie to smear dirt on his name either, and he hopes that means that there’s no hard feelings there either. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. But even if his attentions were not… elsewhere, he would not have wanted to pursue anything with her.  In his mind, she’ll always be a little girl. A little sister, even.

Now that he’s taken care of that business, he walks toward the corral, confident that Ellie will have a talk with Amara about her behavior.

“Good morning,” he calls to Sam and Cesar when he finds them standing together outside the corral fence.  

His friend greets him warmly.  “Buenos dias to you, my friend.”  He squints up at the sky, then at Dean.  “Although the morning is almost gone. If you sleep late and eat well, soon you’ll have a big soft belly and your horse will not be able to carry you.”

“It’ll take more than a night of that, amigo,” Dean answers with a grin.

Sam makes room for him against the fence, and they share a friendly bump of shoulders.  He looks rested and happy, his eyes alight as he watches the vaqueros training young horses.  Sam’s always been more of a scholar than Dean, but even he enjoys working with unbroken horses.  He’s almost as good at it as Dean, and he’s clearly eager to help.

“You gonna get out there and help?” Dean asks.

“I wouldn’t want to get in the way…”

“Nonsense,” Cesar scoffs.  “You’re help is always welcome, Sam.”

Sam lights up.  With Cesar’s encouragement, he vaults over the fence and approaches the vaqueros.  They welcome him with broad smiles.

Dean watches fondly as his brother talks to them about one of the more stubborn horses.  It’s been a while since Sam has trained a horse, and Dean looks forward to seeing him get thrown on his ass in the dirt.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he tells Cesar.  “You’ve got some fine horses.”

“Because of your generosity,” Cesar reminds him.

“You saved my life a time or two.  They’re payment for a debt.” Before Cesar can protest, he adds “And I couldn’t take care of them myself, and I wanted them to have a home where they’d be treated right.”

Cesar gives him a long, knowing look.  “Maybe when you are ready to go back to your own rancho, I will give you some of them.”

“I might accept your offer,” Dean says.

When John had started hunting the demon that killed his wife, he’d left his herd with Bobby and Ellen up in Wyoming.  But they were getting on in age, and Dean couldn’t expect them to wait for him to return forever. Sam had agreed to give most of the horses to Cesar and Jesse when they’d retired from hunting.  It had been a hard decision, but they still kept a few head, including Baby, for the day when they wanted to try their hand and retiring as well.  

They stand in silence, leaning against the fence and watching Sam work with the vaqueros.  They both realize that dream may never come true. Not if Dean is going after a demon like Alistair.  

Escaping Alistair once had nearly cost him and Sam their lives.  Facing him again, is tempting fate.

He really wishes he could talk Sam into staying here.  Helping at the ranch. Making a home for himself here, or going back to Wyoming if Dean doesn’t make it back.  

But he knows that’s a pipe dream.  Sam’s a stubborn asshole, and even without his demon blood powers, he thinks he can help.

Maybe as a distraction, while Dean puts a bullet from the Colt in the brain of Alistair’s current vessel.  Dean knows from experience that the poor bastard would probably welcome death if it freed him from the demon.

Dean holds that image in his head.  Of the Colt’s smoking barrel, and Alistair’s twisted demon soul flickering out of existence, a perfect hole in the center of his forehead.  Maybe he can will it into existence, and then he’ll be able to come home from the mountains, with Cas at his side. Maybe he can talk Cas into a trip to Wyoming, show him the ranch and tell him all his plans to restore it…

If he lets himself hope too hard, failure will be much much worse, so he forces those thoughts from his mind.  

“By the way,” he says to Cesar, “I heard you have another mare that looks like Baby?  I’d love to see how she rides.”

“I let CAstiel take her out this morning.”  At Dean’s surprised look, he shrugs and explains.  “He came by about an hour ago. I think he needed some time alone, and I suggested taking a ride up to the spring meadow.”

Dean nods.  He knows the meadow because he’s helped herd the horses up there a few times. 

He’d stopped at Castiel’s room earlier, but found him already gone.  There’d been so much left unsaid between them when Amara interrupted them, and Dean had hoped to talk to him.

It might be best to give Cas the alone time he needs, but Dean can’t get last night’s kiss out of his head.  He has a feeling that it would be better for them both to have privacy if they talk about it. And there’s not much of it at the ranch.

“Do you have a horse I can use?”

Cesar smiles slyly, and Dean realizes that Ellie isn’t the only one who sees right through him.  “I believe I can find you one. Use mine. He can run like the wind and you’ll need him to catch up with Castiel.”

It would be useless to deny whatever ideas Cesar has about his reasons for going after Cas, so Dean doesn’t bother trying.  He rolls his eyes at Cesar’s gentle teasing and goes to saddle the horse.

Cas has a pretty big head start, and according to Cesar, he’d urged the mare into a full run as soon as he’d reached the edge of the ranch.  But the ground along the trail is dry and soft enough to hold tracks, so it’s easy for Dean to follow. He holds Cesar’s black and gray stallion to an easy canter, staying at a constant distance behind Cas.

He could catch up more quickly, but he needs time to think.  To decide the best way to approach Cas with the proposal he’s been considering since last night.  It’s probably for the best that he didn’t get a chance to talk to Cas right away this morning. He might have made promises he can’t keep.

But they can’t keep dancing around each other they way they are now.  Last night’s kiss proves that. As had his confrontation with Amara. He’d let her show him her favorite colts born this spring, but when she’d tried to proposition him for more, and then kissed him…

Well, it wasn’t hard to see the difference right away.  Amara is young, beautiful, and full of passion. If he were a decade younger, he would have taken what she offered.  But aside from her youth, it was the lack of any kind of feeling when she kissed him that made it easiest to push her away.  

He’d recoiled immediately.  Her lips felt wrong against his, and he’d wanted nothing more than to erase her touch by going straight to Cas’ room and…

A change in the tracks he’s been following drags him from his contemplations.  

There’s a second pair of tracks cutting down from higher up the mountain to fall in behind the prints of Cas’ mare.  It’s an unshod pony, which means it isn’t one of Cesar’s. And they’re more than an hour away from the ranch, which means they’re well outside the ranch’s protective wardings.

Cas is being followed.

Dean examines the trail more closely, while keeping a careful watch on his surroundings, eyes constantly wandering the hillside rising from the trail.  He watches for any sign of movement, and listens for alarmed noises, or sudden silences from any animals that might be startled by an intruder.  

After criss crossing the trail several times, he’s sure there’s only one set of tracks following Cas.  They seem to be staying far enough behind Cas to avoid detection, probably waiting until he’s far enough from the ranch that there’s no chance of help arriving on time.

Cas can probably take on a single assailant, but that’s assuming they’re human.  Normally these mountains are safe. With hunters living in the area, monsters will either avoid it, or they’ll be taken care of.  But with Alistair’s Comancheros in the area, there’s demons to worry about.

Goddammit, that’s something they should have warned Cesar and Jesse about.  The ranch is warded, but anyone leaving the boundaries needs to be prepared for danger.

And Cas doesn’t even have an anti-possession tattoo yet.  Dean can only hope that his rosary is enough to keep him safe until Dean catches up with him.

Dean spurs his borrowed horse into a run.  He’s not worried about staying concealed. He’s got the advantage of knowing these mountains, he’s explored them, both with friends and when he was with Alistair’s gang.  This isn’t the only path up to the meadows, and Dean doesn’t have to stay out in the open to get there.

The man he’s following doesn’t know these mountains, or he wouldn’t keep to the trail.  And he doesn’t know he’s being followed--another advantage for Dean.

He cuts a path up the hill.  Cesar’s stallion is strong and climbs the uneven terrain easily.  He’s cautious of his footing but keeps a good pace.

An hour later, Dean sees the strange rider ahead, and confirms what he’d suspected when he saw the unshod pony tracks.  Apache. Hopefully not possessed, but still dangerous even if purely human.

Cas is somewhere further along the trail, and probably unaware he’s being followed.  He’s far more capable than Dean used to give him credit for, but there’s nothing in Pinkerton training that can prepare a man for being stalked by an Indian.  

He could pick the Apache off, but a gunshot will carry for miles.  They might hear it back at the ranch, but so would the Comancheros and Alistair.

Dean assumes they are far up in the mountains, perhaps even already at the hideout.  But it’s also possible they’re close by. He won’t put Cas in that kind of danger.

He urges the stallion to a faster pace.

* * *

Castiel hears it again--the crunch of twigs under a heavy weight--and much closer than the last time he’d caught the noise.  Without halting his mare, he turns his head slightly and scans the trail from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to give away the fact that he knows he’s being followed.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary to see, but he feels the weight of eyes on his back.  So he remains alert, listening, watching.

Even though Sam had proclaimed the trail safe, and it’s often used by the vaqueros, he’d still brought his gun.  He keeps his hand close to its handle but doesn’t touch it yet, still wary of revealing his knowledge of the invisible stalker.  So far they haven’t made any move to attack, and he doesn’t want to give them a reason to.

It has already occurred to him that whoever, or whatever, is following him may not have any ill intentions, but something feels off.  There’s malevolence in the invisible watcher’s gaze, and it makes his skin crawl.

Up ahead the trees thin and open into a meadow.  Once he leaves the tree cover he’ll be completely exposed.  But that might have the advantage of drawing his stalker out into the open as well, giving Castiel a glimpse of what kind of danger he’s facing.

Or it could get him shot.  But if they wanted him dead, they could easily have attacked already.  

Deciding that he’d rather try to see who’s coming, he ignores the tingle of fear jumping along his nerves and eases his mare into the meadow.

There’s a flash of movement at the edge of his vision.  Before it fully registers and he can react, a shrill whoop splits the air.  His mare spooks and suddenly he’s occupied with keeping his seat and controlling the animal as she bucks and whirls about.

A single rider on a black and white pony is no more than a hundred yards away from him and is closing in fast.  He’s an Indian, with long ebony hair whipping around his shoulders.

Castiel’s frightened mare fights him, making it difficult to draw his weapon, but he manages to get the gun in hand and squeeze out a single shot.  It hits the Indian right in the chest, but he doesn’t falter.

He’s close enough now for Castiel to see the white of his eyes… and to see them get swallowed by a dark void.  A terrifying grin splits his face, and Castiel realizes with horror that what he’s facing is not human.

As the thunderous roar of hooves descends on him, Castiel registers a second rider is rushing toward him, but the demon is too close to risk looking away.  The black and white pony slams into Castiel’s mare, catching his leg between the thrashing animals, and he shouts as the pain races from his knee to his hip.  

An arm like a steel band circles his waist as the demon tries to yank him from the saddle.  Up close, the scent of sulfur is nearly overwhelming, and Castiel gags as he struggles against the demon’s hold.  He jams an elbow hard into the demon’s ribs and grabs his saddle pommel to anchor himself.

The air around them shatters with the sharp report of a single shot.  

A sickly yellow light spills from the demon’s mouth and eyes, and glows so brightly under his skin that Castiel can see the outline of his bones.  When the light flickers out, the man stares at Castiel with wide-eyed disbelief, his eyes no longer void-black, and blood bubbles from his lips. His fingers curl into Castiel’s clothing in a death grip, and as he falls from his horse, he drags Castiel to the ground with him.

The air is knocked from Castiel’s lungs when he hits the ground, and the sharp pain in his ribs doubles when the dead man lands on top of him.  His weight crushes Castiel, and makes it impossible for his to catch his breath.

He thinks he hears someone yelling his name, but all thoughts of the second rider are swept away by panic as he struggles to breathe under the dead weight pinning him down.  The fear that he’d held at bay during the demon’s attack comes roarin forth when he is unable to pull in life giving air.

Frantically, he leverages a foot on the ground and with a last push of strength from his oxygen starved muscles he manages to roll the body off him.  And then there are hands on his arms, and he’s roughly hauled to his feet.

His reaction is pure instinct.  He jerks away from his captor’s grasp and dives for his gun, where it had fallen in the dirt along with him.  

“Cas, it’s me!”

The warning registers just as he aims and pulls the hammer back.

The voice is familiar, slicing through the haze of panic, and he sees Dean standing before him, hands up in a staying motion.  He blinks back confusion, but doesn’t lower his weapon. “Dean?” he gasps.

“Yeah, buddy, it’s me.”  He gives Castiel a crooked grin.  “How ‘bout you lower that gun, huh?”

Suddenly the weapon is too heavy to hold up, and Castiel drops his arm to his side.  Dean slips forward and reaches down to guide Castiel’s numb fingers to gently lower the hammer.  He takes the gun and puts it in Castiel’s holster.

Then his hands are on Castiel’s body, checking for blood or injuries.  “Any sharp pains? Does it hurt to breathe?’

“I’m all right.” To Castiel’s horror, the words are garbled.  His teeth are chattering.

Satisfied that he seems uninjured, Dean gently rubs his arms, nudging him closer.

“Really, I am,” Castiel forces out.

“No, you’re not.”  

Dean’s voice is warmth, and Castiel gravitates closer to it.  Why is he so cold? “I just… just give me… a minute.”

But Dean doesn’t even give him half of one.  He closes his arms around Castiel and pulls him against his chest.  “You don’t have to pretend, Cas. Let go and give in to the fear. You’re entitled to it.”

Castiel shudders and leans against him.  All at once the strength seeps out of his limbs, and he’d slump to the ground if Dean weren’t holding him up.  Tremors sweep through his limbs, and his knees refuse to hold him.

Dean catches him, and all but carries him to the edge of the meadow.  He finds a downed tree and straddles it, and cradles Cas against him. When Cas presses closer, hiding his face against Dean’s neck, Dean runs his fingers through his hair.  Cas’ hat had been knocked free during the skirmish, and Dean attempts to tame the spiked strands. They’re silky against his fingertips.

With a small noise, Cas pushes into the touch.  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he mutters through chattering teeth.

Dean has an idea.  He remembers the first time he came face to face with a demon.  Its eyes had turned black and dead, and its rictus smile had distorted its host face so gruesomely that Dean had nearly lost his breakfast.  Even after years of hunting, killing monsters since he was still a boy, he was unprepared to face a demon.  

He’d never looked into the eyes of pure evil before.  

He hopes that Cas never has to get used to it the way Dean did.

Castiel allows himself to simply rest in Dean’s arms, eyes closed, soaking in his heat.  The steady pounding of Dean’s heart soothes him, and eventually the trembling in his muscles subsides.  He focuses on the slow rise and fall of Dean’s chest, and the clean, human scent of his sweat, and the way Dean’s fingers feel in his hair.

Every now and then Dean will drop a kiss against his hair or his temple or his cheek, whispering assurances.  “You’re safe, Cas. Just hold on to me.”

He wants to hold on.  More than he’s ever wanted anything before.  He feels like if he lets go, he’ll lose his connection with the earth, with reality, and he wonders if the swirling mass of dark fear buzzing in his head is what madness feels like.

During some of the hangings he’d witnessed for the members of Alistair’s gang that murdered his brother, he’d seen things.  Darkness hovering around their bodies, and flashes of black eyes. He’d spoken the exorcism in his brother’s journal, not knowing if the words would have any true effect, but putting his faith in Emmanuel.  It was only after reading John Winchester’s journal that he learned just what he was actually doing.  

This isn’t the first time he’s seen a demon.  But this is the first time he’s _known_ what he faced.  And he’d looked into those black eyes from only inches away, he’d seen his death in them, and only Dean’s decision to follow him from the ranch saved his life.  And possibly his soul.

For the first time, he questions whether he should give up this hunt.  Walk away.

But then he remembers his brother.  And little Magda, and all of the victims of Alistair’s cruelty he’d seen on the way to Mexico.

And Dean.

He doesn’t know what horrors were inflicted on Dean while he was with Alistair.  He isn’t even sure he wants to know, because he’s sure that knowledge would shatter his heart.  But he knows in his soul that Dean deserves vengeance just as much as every other person whose life Alistair has destroyed.  And Castiel wants to give it to him. With the Colt, they have a chance.

For now he simply soaks in Dean’s strength and warmth while it is being so freely offered.  When he feels calm, he sits up. Dean’s arms fall away, but he keeps hold of one of Castiel’s hands, and Castiel is glad for the continued connection.

He looks over to the body nearly hidden in the tall grass.  Only its legs are visible where the horses trampled the vegetation down.  He sees his hat crushed among the grass near the demon’s body. “Is he dead?”

It’s an inane question that he regrets as soon as he voices it.  He’d shot the man right in the chest, and he’d seen the damage caused as the demon inside him sparked out of existence when it was shot with the Colt.

Dean doesn’t treat it like a stupid question though.  “He’s dead. The unfortunate side effect of being possessed by a demon that’s killed with the Colt is that the human dies too.”  His eyes are dark with regret. “But an exorcism only sends the demon back to Hell, and they eventually crawl back out with revenge on their minds.” He lifts the Colt, which he’d kept in hand, probably in case the demon wasn’t alone.  “There’s only 5 things in the universe this thing can’t kill.”

Castiel is glad for it, even as he sends up a prayer for the dead Indian.  He doesn’t know if the man was kind or cruel, or if he was with Alistair’s gang voluntarily and chose to give his body over for the demon’s use.  But in case he was an innocent, he hopes the man’s soul finds peace with whatever gods he believed in.

“I knew someone was following me,” he says.  “But I couldn’t see him until it was too late to do anything about it.”

Dean’s voice is unexpectedly soft.  “I know.” His callused fingers nudge at the rosary wrapped around Castiel’s wrist.  “We need to get you tattooed. This thing probably only works if you’re not in direct line of sight.  Or maybe it doesn’t work on demons the way it does on other creatures.”

That may be why it didn’t help Emmanuel.  Castiel would rather not think about that right now though.

“Do you think he’s one of Alistair’s men?”

“Probably.  He’s an Apache, and he could have been riding with the Comancheros before he was possessed.”

Castiel frowns.  “Do you think they heard the gunshots?”

Dean shrugs, but his gaze sweeps through the trees surrounding the meadow, alert for signs that they’re not alone.  “Hard to say. They could be miles away or close enough to know what happened. We should get out of here in case it’s the latter.”  He’s hopeful that the dead demon is just a straggler, but he’ll feel much better once they’re both back inside the protective wards of the ranch.

His eyes come back to Cas.  “We’ve only got one horse. Your mare bolted.”

Blue eyes widen in alarm.  “We have to find her! She’s important to Cesar!”

His concern for the horse touches something deep inside of Dean.  Cas often does that when he’s least expecting it. “She’ll find her way back to the ranch,” he reassures.

Cas relaxes, and something curls tight and pleasant in Dean’s chest.  And for just a moment he thinks that maybe if they survive this hunt….

He tamps down the warm ball of hope.  There are too many what ifs and obstacles, and Dean won’t go there even in the privacy of his own head.  Not now, and maybe not ever. It’s better not to think that way at all.

Dean stands abruptly and looks away when Cas blinks up at him in confusion.  Dean won’t explain. There’s no need to give false hope by sharing those thoughts with Cas.  Better he continue to think Dean’s an asshole. To not get attached to someone like him.

Someone cursed.  Poison.

They can fool around.  But Dean is better off stashing away all of those thoughts of  _after the hunt_ that he'd been considering earlier.  Cas deserves better.

“Stay here.”  It comes out harsher than he intends, but he only softens a little bit when hurt flashes in Cas’ eyes.  “I’ll get my horse.”

Cesar’s stallion stands nearby, munching the tall grass.  Dean gives him a thankful pat on the neck for not running off with the other horses.  He gathers up the loose reins from where they drag on the ground, and brings him over to the fallen log where Cas still sits.

“We’ll have to ride double.  But if he can carry Cesar, he can carry both of us.”

The joke makes Cas smile weakly.  He stands and whimpers when his weight comes down on his right leg.  Dean reaches out to steady him.

“You all right?”

Cas’ grimaces.  “My knee got slammed between the horses.  I’ll be fine.”

Because of the injury, Dean helps Cas up into the saddle first.  Then he mounts up behind him, and guides the stallion with his heels to take them back to the ranch.  He doesn’t take the same, well-worn path Cas used to get up here, just in case there is anyone else hiding in the hills that might see them out in the open.

They ride in silence.  The warmth of the sun filters down on them through the dense canopy of branches overhead, and the dead leaves and underbrush muffles the stallion’s footsteps.  All around them birds sing now that they don’t sense a dangerous predator in their midst.

The short hours of sleep and the waning adrenaline in his blood leave Castiel exhausted, and he lets his mind detach from the reality of the situation.  He can’t do anything about it, so he simply absorbs the sunshine, the cool breeze, the peacefulness of the forest… and Dean.

Dean’s arms surround Castiel as he holds the reins.  The solid wall of his chest is at Castiel’s back, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat matching the steady plodding of the horse.  Castiel gazes down at Dean’s hands, and is suddenly assaulted by the memory of how tender they can be against his skin.  

Vaguely, he wonders what made Dean follow him up to the meadow.  Did he think Castiel couldn’t take care of himself? Or was there something else motivating him?

He decides it’s not worth thinking about.  If Dean had not followed him today, he might now be dead.  Or worse.

Thinking of what could be worse than death makes him think of his brother.  The condition of Emmanuel’s body when Castiel arrived to fetch him. Before he died, Emmanuel suffered greatly.  And Castiel nearly suffered the same fate.

His mind conjures up horror upon horror that demon could have inflicted on him.  It wasn’t trying to kill him. It wanted to capture him. But why?

“Dean…” he whispers before his voice gets stuck.

When he hears the desperate fear in Cas’ voice, Dean reins the stallion to a halt.  He thinks he knows what’s going through Cas’ head because he’s been thinking the same things himself.  Cas could have died. He could have been dragged away to the demon’s lair and toyed with for days, or worse, used as a vessel.  

It terrifies him how close he’d come to losing Cas today.  But he doesn’t want to think about that, and right now Cas needs him.  Needs assurance that he’s still alive and safe. He wraps an arm tightly around Castiel’s waist, and rests his chin on his shoulder, near his ear where he can whisper assurances.  “It’s okay, Cas,” he says soothingly. “The demon is dead.”

Dean’s lips are soft as they brush Castiel’s cheek.  The barely there kiss makes Castiel turn in the saddle, and his gaze meet’s Dean’s.  This close they’re the same mottled green of the canopy of trees overhead, with flecks of copper and gold just like the smattering of leaves in the forest that are starting to change to their autumn foliage.  

He barely has time to register their beauty before their lips meet.  Feather soft, but it whips up a storm inside Castiel that he cannot contain.  He opens his mouth and takes control of the kiss.

Dean is nearly overwhelmed by the need boiling up inside him.  Cas is kissing him like he’s going to drown and Dean is his only source of oxygen.  He responds by tightening his arm around Cas’ waist, pulling the curve of his bottom against Dean’s growing erection.  He shifts in the saddle, seeking more contact, wishing they were not separated by several layers of clothing.  

Cas strains against him, his tongue flicking against Dean’s lips before delving deeper.  And Dean drops the reins so he can cup Cas’ jaw, holding him in place and feeling the rapid pounding of his heartbeat under his palm.  It matches the increasing rhythm of Dean’s own. Cas’ stubble prickles under Dean’s fingertips and burns where their cheeks brush because of the awkward angle, and he rubs against it lightly before his hand moves to explore more of Cas’ body.

Dean’s roughened hands move over Castiel in soothing strokes.  The callused skin of his palm against Castiel’s jaw, then his fingers tracing down his neck and fanning across his collarbone and dipping into the neck of his shirt to play with the hair there.  Castiel strains for closer contact, and moans when the muscles of Dean’s thighs tighten around his hips in reaction.

He can feel Dean’s hardening cock against his backside, and he shifts, rubbing against it.  The motion pulls a small whimper from Dean’s throat, and Castiel revels in the power he has to affect Dean the way he’s affecting Castiel.

Eager to touch Dean as well, Castiel rubs his palms over Dean’s denim-clad thighs, cupping his knees and squeezing before sliding back up as close to his hips as possible.  He can’t reach as much of Dean’s body as he’d like to, but Dean still reacts as if he’s been licked by flames, his muscles jumping and his breath catching.

Dean’s whole world has narrowed down to the points where their bodies are touching.  He feels every flex of hard muscle as Cas moves in his arms, and desperately wishes for more skin to skin contact.  He’ll take what he can get though, and massages Cas’ chest, plucking at one peaked nipple through his shirt. Cas’ body goes taught, so Dean does it again, rolling the nub between his fingers, and relishing the way Cas’ hands tighten on his thighs.

“Cas,” he whispers hoarsely.  Anything else he might have said is smothered as Cas’ mouth hungrily covers his again.

Dean’s hands stroke over Castiel’s torso, teasing both nipples before coming to rest on his hips and pulling them hard against Dean’s own.  Castiel can feel the evidence of Dean’s need, just as he’d felt it that storm-filled night on the desert.

But unlike the first time, when ignorance had blindly led him, there’s no blindness now and he arches back against Dean.  And a tightly coiled ache builds low in his stomach.

Dean’s hands move from his hips to his waist and tug at Castiel’s shirt until he can fan his fingers across his stomach under the cloth.  One hand slides up and Castiel gasps as one of his nipples is caught again, this time without a layer of cotton shielding him.

For long moments Dean simply holds him, his fingers sending shocks of pleasure through Castiel’s body with each pluck and pinch.  His mouth makes identical strokes along his cheek before moving to his neck and nibbling at the sensitive juncture where it meets his shoulder.  

“Dean,” he whispers with ragged urgency.

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but in the next moment he knows when Dean’s other hand moves upward.  The tight pinch against his other nippled makes him cry out and he arches into Dean’s hands. Dean massages, pinches, and plucks, and then soothes by flattening his palms over the sensitized flesh.

It’s maddening.

But not so maddening as when one of Dean’s hands slides slowly back down his taut stomach, his fingers brushing feather-soft at Castiel’s waist and playing across the top of his pants.  Castiel shudders, and moves to cover Dean’s hand with his own.  

When Cas moves Dean’s hand down over his straining cock over the top of his pants, Dean’s mouth goes dry.  “Oh God, Cas,” he whispers against damp skin. “You feel so good.” He moves his lips to Cas’ ear. “So hard for me.”

Cas begins to writhe in his arms, alternately arching into his palm, and rolling his hips back against Dean’s.  He guides Dean’s hand, forcing him to squeeze the hot length hidden beneath denim, then stroking up and down the length.

“I love how your cock feels in my hand,” Dean breathes.  “Wanna feel it. Wanna feel your skin.”

“Oh god, Dean,” Castiel whispers.  He lets go of Dean’s hand and fumbles at the fastening of his trousers.  “Touch me.”

Dean obeys, slipping his fingers inside the waistband, and Castiel’s breath catches in his lungs.  Every muscle in his body goes taut in anticipation as Dean’s fingers brush through the hair low on his belly.  And then they move lower still, closing around him.

The pressure and heat of Dean’s hand him is a revelation.  Each stroke, smooth and firm, makes him yearn for more. Makes him mindless with pleasure.

When his hand disappears, Castiel lets out a broken cry.  “Dean!”

“Do you want me to touch you again, Cas?”

“Yes, god, yes.  Please, Dean. Touch me, please.”

Cas’ soft begging is going to drive Dean straight out of his head.  He wants to hear more, but he also wants to feel Cas come apart at the seams, and he’s just coherent enough in the haze of his own passion, that he knows now is not the time to drag this out.  But oh… when they have the time…

He holds his hand up to Cas’ mouth.  “Lick, Cas. Get it wet.”

The heat of Cas’ tongue against his palm makes him moan, and he presses his forehead against Cas’ shoulder.  Distracted from his main goal, he concentrates on the wet heat lapping his skin, and gasps when Cas pulls his thumb into his mouth.  The way he suckles on the digit conjures up all the ways in which Dean wants to use his mouth…

Later… later… 

Castiel had been so caught up in the taste of Dean’s skin that he nearly keens in loss when Dean pulls his hand away.  But then his hand is slipping back into Castiel’s pants, wrapping around his cock. He gasps as Dean sets up a steady rhythm, stroking from head to base, and back.  

His body feels like a tightly wound spring, twisting tighter with each firm stroke.

When Cas turns to him with dazed eyes, Dean grants the unspoken request and kisses him.  The angle is off, with Cas leaning back against him and twisting enough for their lips to meet, but Dean makes the most of it.  He plunges his tongue between Cas’ lips, stroking with the same steady rhythm of his hand.  

Slowly, he drags Cas to a frenzied peak.  He delights in each desperate gasp, and high pitched whine.  Cas quivers in his arms, urgently bucking up into Dean’s touch, his hands clamped down on Dean’s thighs for leverage.  Dean feels the strain in every limb in his body. He’s at the brink, and Dean wants to feel Cas fall apart in his arms, even as his own body throbs with painful need.

“Come on, Cas,” he whispers harshly against Cas’ lips as he increases the speed of his strokes, making sure to run his thumb over the head of Cas’ cock to catch the liquid pooling there to ease the way.  “Come on, sweetheart. Let go.”

He feels the moment Cas teeters on the edge.  Then his cock throbs in Dean’s hand, and Cas is crying out against his mouth.  Dean strokes him through it, watching Cas’ face as each pulse of his orgasm is wrung from him.

He only stops when Cas’ hand catches his wrist, holding him still.

For long moments, Castiel leans against Dean.  His breathing and his heartbeat slow, and coherent thought returns.  He still feels Dean’s hardness against him, and he blinks up at Dean.  “Do you want…”

Dean interrupts him, brushing a gentle kiss against his lips.  He says nothing as he pulls his hand from Castiel’s pants, and cleans them with a handkerchief.  

“Dean?”

“Not right now,” Dean says.  He slides his lips along Castiel’s shoulder.  

“But--”

 “Another time, Cas.” Dean doesn’t know if they’ll have another time.  Or if they even should.  

He would love nothing more than to bury himself in Cas, to show him all the pleasures of the male body that he’s been missing out on.  To imprint him with so many memories of Dean’s touch, that no one else will ever be able to erase them.

The possessiveness he feels right now is dangerous.  Cas doesn’t belong to him. _Can’t_ belong to him.  

His chest aches with the realization that this shouldn’t have happened.  Just as that night on the desert shouldn’t have happened.  

He wonders if he has the strength to deny Cas, if the opportunity rises again.  The needy throb between his legs suggests otherwise, but for both of their sakes, he’ll try.

“We should get back to the ranch,” he says.  He can’t resist another lingering kiss, which Cas leans into with a sigh.  He adjusts Cas’ body, pulling him tight into the curve of his own. “Just rest,” he murmurs against Cas’ hair.

He can see questions in Cas’ eyes, but mercifully he leaves them unspoken.  Cas relaxes into Dean, trusting him to get them home safe.

It’s that trust that unlocks something in Dean that he’s kept sealed away for a long long time.  He spends the rest of the ride back to the ranch wondering if he’ll ever be able to lock it away again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously doubt a horse would have really put up with that bullshit lol


	24. Chapter 24

It’s difficult to keep his hands off Cas, so Dean doesn’t try.  He holds the stallion’s reins in one hand, and strokes Cas’ denim clad thigh, or kisses the back of his neck just above the collar of his shirt.  He nuzzles Cas’ hair, pulling in the scent of sweat, and savoring his heat.

He has no idea what Cas thinks of all the touching, but as long as he’s not putting a stop to it, Dean allows himself this luxury.  He’s still shaken over how close Cas came to being torn out of his life forever.  If he hadn’t followed him…

Hoofbeats on the trail shatters the intimacy between them.  Cas straightens in the saddle and draws his gun, even as Dean does the same.  They’re still not on the main path, but Dean had guided the stallion higher up the hill so they have a better view of it.  

Dean lowers his weapon when he recognizes the riders.  Disappointment that his time with Cas is being cut short makes him sigh.  It was nice while it lasted.  Which is pretty much how these things always go for him.

“You might want to straighten your clothes,” Dean says softly, and with an undercurrent of amusement.

Castiel’s cheeks flame, and he quickly holsters his gun before tucking his shirt back in and checking the fastening of his pants.  He runs a hand through his hair, but gives up on it.  Without his hat he’s going to look like a mess anyway.  He just hopes it looks like he _only_ fell off a horse.

Dean chuckles and runs his fingers lightly down Castiel’s arm, before urging the stallion out of cover.  He’s been touching Castiel almost constantly since they left the meadow, and Castiel wonders if he’ll stop when there are other people around to witness it.  Castiel isn’t sure whether he’d want it to continue or not.  He’s enjoyed it immensely, but he’s not sure his cheeks will stop overheating if Dean touches him so casually in front of others.

At the head of the small group of vaqueros, Jesse reins in when he sees Dean and Castiel coming through the trees.  “Thank goodness you’re alright,” he sighs.  “We heard shots.”

“There was an Apache following Cas,” Dean says.  “Must have come down from the high mountains.”

“He’s dead?” Jesse asks.

“He’s dead,” Dean confirms.  He pats the Colt in its holster.  “Thanks to this.  He was possessed.”

That announcement makes several of the vaqueros cross themselves.  They become more alert, watching the shadows under the trees.

“Do you think he was with Alistair?” Jesse asks grimly.

Dean shrugs.  “Don’t know for sure, but I’d like to get back inside the wards as soon as possible.”

Now that they’re not riding alone, they take the main path back, and everyone breathes easier when they pass the large stone with a protection symbol carved into it at the border of the ranch.  A commotion erupts around them as they ride into the yard.  Vaqueros come running from several directions, and Ellie comes outside with several of the children.

Cesar pushes through the crowd and looks up at Dean and Cas from under his hat.  Relief crosses his features when he finds them unharmed.  “It’s good to see you back safe and sound.  We were--”

“Dean! Dean!” The fear filled cry comes from across the yard, where Amara stands with a basket of wet laundry.  She drops it into the dust at her feet and breaks into a run toward them.

When Cas goes taut against Dean’s chest, he gently tightens his arm around Cas’ waist.  It is an unmistakable gesture lost on no one, except perhaps Amara.

Ellie catches Amara by the arm, and whirls her around.  “Silencio, hija!” she hisses.  “Do not disgrace yourself!”

Silence hangs over the gathered crowd as Amara turns a tormented gaze on Dean.  Then she turns and flees across the yard, passing the laundry she’d dropped and disappearing behind the house.

Cesar shakes his head sadly.  “My apologies.  She is young, and has much to learn.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Dean says.  As if of its own accord, his thumb brushes up under Cas’ rib.  

When the caress makes Cas’ breath hitch, he realizes that he’s still holding him possessively.  Clearing his throat, he slips from the saddle.

Castiel misses Dean’s body pressed against his almost immediately.  He’d enjoyed the tight hold Dean had kept around him, but it probably appeared strange that they’d stayed mounted together for so long.

Once he has room to do so, he slides down from the saddle.  When his weight comes down on his knee, he hisses with discomfort.  

“Are you all right?” Dean asks as he reaches to steady Castiel.

“Just a bit bruised,” Castiel says as he straightens.  He pulls away from Dean and is glad to find that he can stand without help.  Testing the knee by bending it causes the ache to increase slightly, but he doesn’t seem to have lost any motion.  “I’ll be fine.”

“That is good news,” Cesar says.  “Sam did not fare so well.”

Dean turns sharply to face Cesar.  Thunder gathers in his eyes.  “What happened to Sam?”

“Maybe you should let him tell the tale.”  Cesar’s lips twist with amusement.  “I do not want to be the unlucky messenger that gets a bullet in his hide.  He’s in your room, resting.”

Worry adds speed to Dean’s footsteps, although he manages not to run.  He finds Sam in the room they share, and his eyes widen when he sees that Sam’s arm is bound tightly to his side with long bandages.

“It’s really not that bad,” Sam says when he sees Dean looming in the doorway.  “You’re overreacting.”

“I’m reacting a normal amount,” Dean growls as he crosses the room and takes a seat in the chair next to the bed.  Seeing his brother half cocooned in bandages makes his heart race.  He hears the ghostly whisper of his Pa’s voice, scolding him for letting this happen.  “What the hell happened?”

Sam grimaces, and ducks his head until he’s hiding behind his hair.  That’s usually a sign that Dean is not going to like the answer.  He mumbles something that Dean doesn’t quite catch.

He leans forward.  “What was that?

“I got thrown by a horse,” Sam says more clearly.  He peeks at Dean from under his hair, and looks so much like a gangly kid, that Dean feels like they’ve been thrown back fifteen years in their past.  

He continues in an annoyed tone.  “The gunshots startled everyone, and the horse took its chance to buck me off.  I landed wrong and dislocated my shoulder.”

Dean sits back and covers his face.  “Jesus Christ, Sam.”

“It was an accident!”

Dean drops his hand and sighs.  He looks at his little brother, who is watching him back with wary defensiveness.  Their dad would have ripped into Sam.  For endangering himself.  For not keeping good enough control of the horse.  Sam would have been in for one helluva lecture, and it would have turned into a fight.  The kind of yelling match that Dean would have to jump in and break up before it turned physical.  Because even injured, Sam won’t take that bullshit lying down. 

As much as he loved his father, Dean doesn’t want to be him.  Especially not with Sam.  So he inhales deeply, and breathes out as much of his worry and anger as he can in a long sigh.  “All right,” he says.

Sam’s wariness only increases.  Which tells Dean that he hasn’t been as good at not acting like John as he’d like to be.  “All right?” Sam asks suspiciously.  

“Well you’re not dead, so I don’t have a reason to kill you for being an idiot,” Dean says wryly.

The wary pout turns into a half smile, and Sam lifts his head enough that his hair no longer shadows his eyes.  “Thank goodness for that.”  His expression turns serious again.  “I’m glad you’re okay too.  When I heard those shots, I thought… well I was worried.  And pissed off at myself that I couldn’t ride with Jesse to find you and Cas.”

Dean gives a brief rundown of the events at the meadow, leaving out the details of Cas’ anxiety attack and what happened afterwards.  The last thing he needs to do is give Sam any ideas about what kind of relationship he and Cas have.

Sam leans back against the cushions and huffs out a breath.  “Shit, that was close.”

That’s what Dean’s been thinking for hours now.  He rubs a hand over his face, trying to wipe away intrusive thoughts of what could have happened.  “The demon was stalking him, Sam.  It wasn’t going to kill him, it was going to take him.”

“You would have gotten him back,” Sam says with a conviction that Dean isn’t sure he deserves.  

“Well I’d have to if I wanted to get our pardons,” Dean jokes weakly.  

Sam gives him a Look, because he’s always been able to see through Dean’s crap, no matter how deep he shovels it.  “Dean… I know he means more than that to you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean sighs.  “You know the kind of life that we live.  Cas and I...” he hesitates as his mind wanders to the feel of Cas’ skin, and the taste of his lips.  “It doesn’t mean anything,” he says firmly.  “There’s only two ways this hunt ends.  If we somehow get lucky and live through it, Cas will go back to his life and his job in Denver and I’ll keep hunting.  There’s no room in our lives for each other.”

Sam opens his mouth to argue, and Dean braces himself.  But he receives a reprieve from the lecture.  Uneven footsteps outside the door bring their attention to the opening, and Cas appears.  His blue eyes are worried, but he smiles when he sees Sam sitting up in bed.  “Hello, Sam.  What have you done to yourself?”

Sam huffs in annoyance, which makes Dean grin.  Fondness rises up in him when Cas walks into the room and sits down on the edge of the bed, and Sam retells the story of his injury.

Castiel listens intently, focusing on Sam’s words and not what he’d heard Dean say before he’d decided it was best to interrupt before anything else was said that he didn’t want to hear.  The pain that had ripped through his chest rivaled the throb in his knee, but he resolutely ignores both.  

Like Dean said.  It doesn’t matter.

He is relieved to learn that Sam hasn’t broken any bones, but it’s concerning that it is his gun arm that is incapacitated.  The brothers both seem to pick up on his grim mood at the same time, their smiles fading in tandem.

“Cas, what’s wrong?” Sam asks.

So many things.  But he only shares what he came here to tell them in the first place.

“I spoke with Cesar,” Castiel says.  “One of the vaqueros returned from delivering a horse to a ranch up in the mountains, and he brought news.  Alistair and his men were seen in the high country two days ago.”

Dean curses and Sam rubs a hand across his face.  “This is bad news,” the younger says grimly.

Very bad news, indeed.  Especially with Sam injured.  But Castiel can’t let Alistair’s lead get any larger than it is.  “Dean,” he says, “we need to go after him.”

The brothers exchange a long look, and Sam’s expression turns thunderous.  “No, you are _not_ leaving me behind!”

“Sammy--”

Sam cuts him off sharply.  “You need me, Dean!”

“I need you to be safe!” Dean snaps right back.  He returns Sam’s glare with equal heat.  “And you haven’t been around a demon since Ruby, we don’t know how you’ll--”

“That won’t be a problem!  Why can’t you trust me?”

“Sam, you nearly died the last time we tried to get you off the blood!”

Castiel can see them both gathering steam for an argument that he assumes they’ve had many times.  And while he prefers to give Sam the benefit of the doubt that Dean struggles to give him, the argument is moot.  “Sam, you can’t fight right now.  Not until your shoulder heals.”  

The glare Sam levels on him is full of rage, but when their gazes lock, he stays quiet.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Castiel says, truthfully.  “But right now, you are a liability.”

Sam’s jaw clenches tightly.  His angry gaze flicks back and forth between Castiel and Dean, and Castiel can see when he realizes that he’s not going to win the fight.  He’s a smart man.  But that doesn’t seem to help with his anger.  He turns his face to the wall.  “Fine,” he mutters.

Castiel’s chest aches for Sam.  He hopes this altercation does not destroy the fragile friendship they’ve been building.  But he’s come so far, searched for so long.  And he’s finally close to catching Alistair.  So close to bringing the last, and worst, of his brother’s killers to justice.

He looks to Dean, proud that he can meet his eyes without showing any of the hurt and turmoil roiling in his gut.  “Will our horses be ready to travel in the morning?”

He can see Dean’s hesitation, and he gears up for an argument.  If the horses are not ready, he’ll offer to buy some from Cesar and Jesse. 

Dean surprises him with his answer.  “Another day would be better, but I think they can handle it.”

Castiel nods.  “Then we’ll leave in the morning.”

* * *

Tattoos, Castiel learns, hurt.  It shouldn’t be surprising, since the process requires having needles jammed repeatedly into his skin.  But for some reason, Castiel thought it wouldn’t be as bad as it is.  

Having Dean so close, with his hands on Castiel’s bare chest, distracts him from the worst of it though.  Dean’s hands are gentle as he wipes away blood and continues to mark him with black ink.  The pain of the needle provides counter-balance, and keeps him from focusing too hard on counting Dean’s freckles, or how warm his hands are.  And within a few hours, there is a flaming pentagram over his heart to match Dean and Sam’s.  

Castiel stays as far away from Dean as possible for the rest of the day.  He busies himself with preparation for the journey, until Ellie notices his limp and makes him sit down and rest his knee.  She gives him laundry to fold, and he tells her stories about the cities he’s visited.  

When Dean appears, he slips away with excuses that his knee is stiff from sitting too long, and he goes for a long walk out to the grazing pastures.  Luckily the rest seemed to help, and his limp recedes.

Cesar and Jesse’s vaqueros work in shifts, riding watch along the perimeters of the ranch.  The news that Alistair and his Comancheros had been seen up in the mountains set everyone on edge.  Demons can’t pass the wardings, but humans can, so they don’t let their guard down.  

When Jesse invites Castiel to ride with him to check the wardings themselves, he gladly goes along.  Since he’d learned of the protective symbols carved into his rosary, he’s found the subject of wardings fascinating, and it is a good learning opportunity.  And it keeps him away from the ranch for the better part of the afternoon.

The smaller children are fed early and put to bed.  The older children are quiet, whispering among themselves at the supper table.  Except for Amara.  She refuses to join the family at supper.  Humiliated because of the way she’d acted toward Dean, she declares that she would rather die than face everyone.

Ellie informs her that as long as she’s “going to die”, she might as well make herself useful in the meantime.  She gives Amara a basket of mending, ample thread and needles, and informs her “not to die” until the mending is completed.

Amara retreats to the bedroom she shares with the younger children, with a basket piled high with every available shirt and pair of pants that needs a button replaced or the tiniest tear repaired.  Ellie winks at Castiel, not in the least concerned with the girl’s dire predictions of death.  “It will give her time to contemplate her foolishness.  That worked with me when I was her age, and it will work with her.” Then she confides in a lower voice.  “I hated mending more than anything, and Amara hates it just as much.  By the time she is done I won’t have to worry about doing any until the smaller children are grown.”

Castiel has very little appetite, although the food is delicious.  He accepts the full plate Ellie puts before him, but spends more time pushing food around on it rather than actually eating.

He can feel Dean’s at his side even though they aren’t touching, and all he can think about is the solid wall of Dean’s chest at his back, the heat of his thighs cupping Castiel’s hips, the strength in his fingers as they--

Unable to suppress those memories while Dean is only inches away, Castiel pushes his plate away and rises from the table.  He makes a flimsy excuse that he is sure no one believes, and leaves the cabin.  

The weight of Dean’s green gaze is heavy on his shoulders as he walks away from the table.  He must know that Castiel is avoiding him.  And Castiel half expects him to follow.  Hopes for it, almost.

Which is ridiculous.  If they share any more private, intimate moments, what little bit of Castiel’s heart he’s managed to hold on to will crumble to pieces as soon as he remembers that to Dean, their trysts don’t matter.  Because he expects to walk away from Castiel without a backward glance when this hunt is over.

He stops under a lemon tree and presses a hand to the ache under his sternum.  Closing his eyes, he takes slow, deep breaths.  But the feeling doesn’t pass.  Instead, realization dawns that maybe he hasn’t been as successful at protecting his heart as he’d thought.

Well.  He certainly hadn’t expected to fall in love with the man on the wanted poster.

“Cas?”

Blinking away the sting in his eyes, Castiel turns and forces a smile.  “Hello, Sam.”

“Hey.” Sam’s long strides bring him to Castiel’s side, and he looks up at the sky through the branches of the tree.  “Nice night.  Chilly though.”

Castiel is happy to engage in mindless small talk.  “Yes.  I believe the predictions of an early end to summer may be true.”  

Sam hums his agreement, and they share a companionable silence.

“I like it out here,” Castiel says after a long moment.  “It’s much easier to think.”

“About Dean?” Sam suggests.

Castiel’s head whips down and he stares at Sam.  “What?  No, I…”  He doesn’t want to talk about Dean, so he sidesteps the issue.  “I’m sorry you won’t be coming with us.”

Sam’s smile is knowing, but he allows the subject change.  He sighs and frowns down at his bandaged arm.  “I’m worried about you two going alone.  There are a lot of things that can go wrong, and the Colt won’t be able to solve everything.”

“Those things could go wrong even if you’re with us,” Castiel points out.  “And Dean might be distracted by his need to protect you.”

“You don’t think he’ll be distracted by his need to protect you?” Sam asks casually.

Castiel curses silently.  He does _not_ want to talk about Dean.

Sam turns to face Castiel, his expression solemn.  “Alistair isn’t just any demon, and he’s smart,” he says.  “You and Dean have to work together to take him down, and I need to know that you’ll protect him too.  If he doesn’t come back from this, I’ll--” his voice breaks, and he looks away.

“I’ll get him back to you,” Castiel promises, without thought.  He doesn’t say that he has his own reasons to want Dean to make it through this hunt alive.  Right now, his only concern is giving Sam some peace of mind.

Because he knows Sam’s fears.  When Emmanuel had announced his intentions to move out West, Castiel had been worried for him.  If he knew what kind of monsters were waiting for him, he would have been terrified.  He would have done everything he could to talk Emmanuel out of going, but failing that--because his brother could be quite stubborn, much like Dean sometimes--Castiel would not have let him go on his own.  And maybe that would have been a stupid decision that would have gotten both of them killed.  Or maybe they could have survived.  Together.

“I don’t know how you can stand to let him leave you behind,” Castiel admits quietly.

Sam huffs out a bitter laugh.  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I truly am sorry,” Castiel says.  “If you weren’t injured…”

Sam waves away the apology with his good hand.  “Don’t.  I get it.  Just… just be safe, and watch each other’s backs, okay?  It’s not just Dean that I’m worried about.”

The admission that Sam cares if he returns as well warms Castiel’s heart, healing some of the pain left by knowing that soon his time with Dean will be over.  If nothing else comes from this hunt, at least he’ll have made a good friend.  “Thank you, Sam.  I will.”

Sam sniffs and nods.  Then he reaches behind him, and pulls out a knife.  Castiel sees the sigils etched in the blade in the moonlight.  “Take this with you.  It won’t kill Alistair, but it’ll work against any other demons you come up against.  And it’s pretty effective against humans too.”  He smiles grimly at the joke.

Slowly, Castiel reaches for the knife.  The horn handle fits perfectly in his palm.  “Are you sure?  We don’t want to leave you unprotected.”

“With the wardings this ranch has, I’m in the safest place I can be.  You’re the one riding after demons.  Take it.”

“I’ll bring it back to you,” Castiel promises.

Sam’s smile turns warm and genuine.  “Good.”

* * *

The morning air is chilly when Castiel wakes.  He lies still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling through the gloom of predawn.  The world is still and calm, and for a moment he allows himself the luxury of imagining that he doesn’t have to leave the comfort of his bed.  That his mission is complete, and he’s come out safe on the other side.  That he can get up and share breakfast with the family that lovingly built this ranch, and that Dean…

He cuts off those wistful thoughts and rolls out of bed, happy to find that the ache in his knee has receded even more.  There’s only a slight purpling of bruises around it, but they seem to be mainly from the impact of the horses’ bodies, and not from any damage to the actual joint.  Which means he won’t need to continue hiding the injury from Dean.

After dressing, he visits the kitchen.  Ellie had left a pot of warm beans at the hearth and soft flour tortillas in a warming pan.  Castiel fills his empty stomach, and then wraps beans in several more tortillas and slips them into a small pouch.  He gathers his saddlebags, takes up his bedroll, and lets himself out of the house.

Several vaqueros talk quietly at the corrals.  They’d been up through the night, continuing their vigilant rides into the hills.

Castiel’s gelding is in the corral, and he stops midway there when he sees who is saddling it for him.  It’s tempting to turn around and walk right back into the house, but he can’t avoid Dean forever.  Not when they need to work together for this hunt.

Still, his steps are slower as they carry him across the yard and through the corral gate.

Dean looks up when he hears Cas coming, and he can’t help letting his eyes linger.  Cas is dressed as he usually is, in denim pants, heavy cotton shirt, and the soft buckskin boots Dean had given him.  His normally wild dark hair is covered by his hat, and he wears a long tan duster, a gift from Cesar, because the mountains will be cold.  The pants cling to Cas, outlining the bulky muscles of his thighs and the thick bulge between them.  Need builds down low in Dean’s belly as he remembers just how hard and hot Cas felt in his hand.

He shakes his head and looks away as he reaches beneath the gelding to snug the saddle’s cinch strap tight.  Castiel’s boots enter the edge of his vision, and he takes a bracing breath before straightening and meeting blue eyes.

“I could have done that,” Cas says.  

There’s no accusation in his expression or his tone, but Dean still feels his spine stiffen defensively.  His next words come out harsher than he intends.  “Gotta make sure you can’t leave me behind.”

Cas’ head tilts in that way that always makes Dean want to kiss him.  “Why would I do that?  I need you to help me find Alistair’s hideout.”

Something about Cas’ matter of fact tone raises Dean’s hackles, and he resists the urge to lash out.  But anger never gets him anywhere with Cas.  Sam knew it too, and had warned him last night.

_“Talk to him, Dean.  Tell him what you really feel.  Make him understand.”_

Dean wants to do that.  But how does he make Cas understand something he barely understands himself?  It’s the rare occurrence for Dean to face a problem that can’t be resolved with a gun or a silver knife.  He’s out of practice, so he searches for words.

“We have to talk.”

Cas raises one eyebrow, but continues to stare cooly at Dean.  “About what?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”  He sounds hurt and confused, and it angers him that he can’t tamp that down for one goddamn conversation.

Cas’ eyes skitter away, and he bends down for his saddle bags and moves around Dean to fasten them over his saddle.  “You’re right, I have.”

“Do you mind telling me why?” Dean asks quietly.

Instead of answering right away, Cas goes to the nearby shed and comes back with a sack of grain for the horses.  Dean doesn’t follow, but simply waits for his return.  And his answer.

Cas ties the grain sack to his saddle and glances Dean’s way briefly.  “I didn’t want you to postpone leaving if you saw me limping.”

If his knee is still hurting, he’s doing a good job of hiding it.  But Cas let Ellie take a look at it the day before, and she’d assured Dean later that it was only some bruising when he asked.  He would have used it as an excuse to stay at the ranch longer if he thought it would really be a problem, but he trusted Cas to be truthful about the injury.  And he agreed that they shouldn’t let Alistair and his men get too far ahead of them.

He calls Cas on the lie.  “There’s more to it than that.”

Castiel is aware that Dean is speaking of what happened between them the day before by the way his voice drops, in volume and tone.  It slides over Castiel’s skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.  “No there isn’t.”

Before he can move away, Dean’s hands are on his shoulders.  “Is this about Amara?  Because nothing happened the other night.  I sent her away.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel says, even as his heart protests otherwise.  

“It mattered yesterday morning,” Dean says quietly.

Castiel looks away, unable to meet Dean’s gaze as he pulls out of his grasp.  “That was a mistake.”

Dean watches Cas continue packing supplies.  His heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest by way of his throat, and his eyes burn.  Cas is right.  It was a mistake.  Every time they’ve touched has been a mistake.  

But hell if the truth doesn’t hurt like a bitch.  

It’s better this way.  He knows it is.  He’s known it all along.  But it still feels a little bit like dying to know that the last time he gets to touch Cas has already come and gone.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says quietly.  “I’ll go saddle my horse.”

He bridles and saddles Baby.  When he goes to fetch his saddle bags, he finds Sam standing at the edge of the corral with Dean’s gear sitting at his feet.

“Did you talk to him?” Sam asks as he hands Dean his rifle.

“I did.”

“And?”

“And nothing.  He just didn’t want me to see him limping and call things off.”

Sam doesn’t look like he believes that explanation, but for once he doesn’t pry.  “Cesar and Jesse will send some of their vaqueros with you if you ask,” he says instead.

“No,” Dean says firmly.  “You’ll need every man here if any of the Comancheros double back.  Besides, me and Cas can travel faster by ourselves and we’ll draw less attention.”  

It’ll be torture, being alone with Cas.  But the only person Dean trusts to keep up is Sam.  Maybe Cesar and Jesse, but they need to stay and protect their home as well.

“Don’t forget to warn them about the sheriff,” he adds.  “Greedy bastard should be here any day, and the wards won’t stop him.”

“Already talked to Cesar about it,” Sam says with a grin.  “He’s planning on keeping the sheriff and his posse _very busy_.  They won’t be able to follow you for a few days, and even then, they’ll probably end up lost.”

Dean chuckles.  “Just see to it they don’t get lost permanently.  Last thing we need is another murder on our records.  Cas has enough dirt to clear off our names as it is.”

Their grins fade, and Sam’s voice is sober when he speaks again.  “Please be careful.”

Dean pats the Colt at his hip.  “I’m going to make every shot count.”

“And you have to trust Cas to do his part,” Sam reminds him.  “He’s a good man to have at your side.”

Dean glances over his shoulder where Cas stands with his horse, scratching its chin while he waits at a polite distance to avoid overhearing them.  For the first time, Dean confronts something he’s been avoiding.  Something that opens old wounds that span most of his life.  Something that would have been lost to him forever on the gallows back in Tombstone.

He turns back to his brother.  “Yes,” he admits.  “He is.”

They share a long look, full of understanding that only family can truly share.  Dean is the first to break, stepping forward and hugging his brother tightly, while still being careful of his injured shoulder.  He hates the idea of leaving him behind, even if he is grateful for the excuse to keep him away from Alistair.  It’s not just the blood addiction he fears, and it gives him strength to know that no matter what happens on this hunt, Sam will be safe and alive.

He releases Sam quickly.  “See you later, bitch.”

Sam rolls red rimmed eyes.  “Yeah sure, jerk.”

He says nothing to Cas, but communicates that it’s time to go by pulling himself into Baby’s saddle.  Cas mounts up as well, and they ride side by side towards the mountains.

They ride to the river and follow it for a few miles before Dean leads them up what barely seems to be a trail to Castiel’s untrained eyes.  But he says nothing, aware that Dean is familiar with these mountains as if he’d lived in them his whole life.  

They stop for water when the river crosses their path again, and even Castiel recognizes the signs that other horses have been here.  “Do you think it’s Alistair’s men?” he asks.

Dean nods.  “Even Comancheros need water.”

“How many?”

“Seven ponies.  Three are shod.” Dean looks around, calculating how old the trail is.  “They’ve split up.”

Castiel resists the urge to curse.  “How will we know which group to follow?”

“Alistair will be riding one of the shod horses,” Dean says as he mounts back up and guides Baby in a different direction than the one they’d been going.  “Let’s keep moving.”

He doesn’t question Dean’s assertion.  There’s a reason he chose Dean to guide him.

It’s mid afternoon before Dean calls a halt again.  Castiel slips from the saddle and goes into the bushes for some privacy.  When he returns, Dean is crouched down examining the dirt again.

“They’ve split up again.” He stands, slapping his hands against his thighs to knock off dust.  He approaches Baby and grabs his canteen, taking a long sip before giving more details.  “Alistair and three more have gone into the high country.  They’re headed for the oldest hideout.”

He screws the cap back on the canteen and throws the strap around his saddle horn before swinging himself back into the saddle.  “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before sundown.”

The remainder of the afternoon, they ride in silence, climbing one invisible path after another.  The quiet gives Castiel too much time to contemplate their conversation back at the ranch.  And even more time to admire the shift and play of Dean’s shoulders under his coat as his body sways with Baby’s gait.  The only way to distract himself is to pay attention to their surroundings instead.

The mountains make for a good distraction.  At lower elevations they ride through sycamore, cottonwood, and willow, most of which are aflame with brilliant autumn foliage.  

At higher elevations the cold night temperatures have already begun to strip the branches and leaves carpet the rocks, boulders, and mountain pools.  Castiel catches a glimpse of a glossy furred beaver near a fallen tree, but it disappears into the water, broad tail leaving rippling trails in its wake.

He sees raccoons watching them from the trees, and mule deer grazing near the water’s edge.  Even before they could pick up the scent of humans and horses, one of the deer lifts its head in alarm, then the small herd bolts up the mountainside.  The horses also tense, and Dean catches sight of a smoky gray boar rooting through the underbrush nearby.  He alters their course, not wanting to tangle with the ornery, unpredictable animal.

They make camp at the first summit just as the sun is starting to lower itself below the rocky peaks.  It’s too dangerous to continue their ascent up the mountain in the darkness.  But they’d ridden for almost fourteen hours, and both they and their horses need rest.

Their conversation is guarded.  There were too many things burning to be said, but neither of them have the energy, or the inclination.  And there’s the constant awareness that Alistair and his men were out there as well, probably camping nearby.

As Castiel lay in his blanket roll that first night, he listens closely to the night sounds until his nerves are raw, and his fingers ache from clutching the gun he kept under the edge of his blanket.

They rise early the following day, breaking camp before sunup.  Castiel had slept poorly and fatigue pulls at him.  But determination gives him strength.  Every step, every turn in the trail, every rock they climb around takes them closer to Alistair--and justice for Emmanuel.

They travel as fast as they dare over rocky terrain and dense thickets.  The air turns cooler as they ride higher up the mountainside, and Castiel is grateful for the long duster coat that Cesar gifted him for the trip.

Because of the pace he’d set, Dean surprises Castiel when he calls a halt for the day.  There are at least a few hours left of daylight, and he wants to go on, but he doesn’t argue.  Dean makes the decisions out here.

The camp is well hidden, and Dean seems to feel they’re safe from anyone stumbling across it.  A shallow, boulder lined pool provides water.  The rock walls of the mountains rise at their backs, and a thick line of cottonwood and pine protect them from the high winds.  The air is warm and still near the pool, sheltered from any breeze.

“How close are we?” Castiel asks.  He rubs at his chest through his shirt.

Dean slaps his hand away.  “Don’t scratch it.”  He gives Castiel a warning look, before returning to caring for the horses.  “A few days, maybe.”

“Do you think Alistair knows he’s being followed?”

“Not yet.  But he will.”

Castiel’s skin is sticky with sweat, and his tattoo itches mercilessly.  But he goes cold all over at Dean’s announcement-- _he will._

They finish setting up camp and have a cold supper, unwilling to risk a fire where Alistair and his men might find them.  Then Dean takes off to scout the area, as he had the previous night as well.  One moment he’s standing over Castiel’s blanket roll, warning him to keep Sam’s knife with him at all times, and his gun close to hand.  Then, without a sound, he’s gone.

Castiel would be a liar if he tried to convince anyone that Dean’s sudden disappearances and reappearances don’t bother him.  If Dean moves that silently, then the Comancheros can too.  It’s a disquieting thought.

Of course, Dean is also out there.  Castiel finds that thought highly reassuring.

Taking the opportunity Dean’s absence provides, Castiel grabs a clean shirt, a washcloth, and soap.  He hesitates over his shaving kit, but decides to leave it behind.  Shaving in cold water is unpleasant, and he’d rather grow back the beard he’d sported for most of their trek through the desert.  

Leaving his weapons on the bank within easy reach, he slips out of his clothing, leaving it folded neatly on a large flat rock.  The water is cold, lapping around his calves.  Knowing that taking a quick plunge will work better than inching further in, he turns his back to the water, sucks in a deep breath, and lets himself fall backwards with a splash.  He comes back up, sputtering and laughing at himself as he breaks through the surface of the water.

The water is much colder than he’d anticipated, but it feels exhilarating and cleansing.  He bathes quickly though, unwilling to stay in the bone chilling water any longer than necessary.  Dirt and sweat and the smell of horses sluices from his pebbled skin, and he dunks himself one more time to rinse off.

When he stands up out of the water, his skin tingles for a whole other reason than the cold air on his wet skin.  He glances back to the camp and the tethered horses, who seem at ease as they rest.  There’s nothing on the opposite bank along the forest line either.

It’s quiet, peaceful, tranquil.  And he’s being watched.

He scans his surroundings again, but still sees nothing out of the ordinary.  The feeling of being watched doesn’t abate, though.

His eyes fall on his weapons on the bank, while his mind races.  If whoever is watching him wants him dead, he would be already.  But there are certainly worse things than death, and he refuses to go without a fight.  He can’t count on Dean coming back in time to help, either.

Could he get to the gun in time?

It probably won’t matter.  In order to use it, he’ll have to know where his target is, and he doesn’t.

The sensation of being watched intensifies and Castiel takes a deep breath.  He needs to remain calm.  His life depends on it.

He swallows and takes another deep breath.  Then he slowly turns around.


	25. Chapter 25

At first Castiel can’t see him through the golden glare of sunlight on the water.  His eyes trace slowly over the rocks at the bank and the dense trees behind them.  No movement gives him away, but Castiel’s eyes finally catch on the figure crouched low on the bank, his appearance as sudden as if he’d materialized there.

He’s bare chested, and his lean arms rest on his knees.  Water trickles from his fingers and the golden skin of his chest.  A flaming pentagram stands out black and stark on the skin over his heart.

His relaxed position as he stares back at Castiel with mossy green eyes is deceiving.  Every muscle and tendon is tensed, as if he might spring forward at any moment.  There’s a predatory power about him that is both frightening and fascinating.  

Dean Winchester is like a lean, tawny cat.  Predatory, hypnotizing.  Wild and dangerous.

When Cas slowly turns toward him, he reminds Dean of a magnificent buck.  Power coiled tight under his skin, poised for fight or flight.

His hair is slicked back against his head, and crystalline drops of water slide down his neck and shoulders.  Dark as midnight, it emphasizes the the honey’d glow of his skin and his vivid lake-blue eyes.  

Dean sees the shift of recognition.  The relaxing of Cas’ shoulders and fists, and the rise of his muscled chest as he finally takes a breath.

The pants, loose shirt, and boots that have kept Cas’ body hidden from Dean’s hungry gaze are all gone, giving him his first full body view of the man.  Water sleeks down his muscled thighs, beads in the soft curls of dark hair on his belly and chest, glistens in the hollow of his throat, on his cheekbones, and the fullness of his mouth.

Desire and regret fight for dominance in Dean’s heart.  He feels consumed with need for all the things he’s convinced himself he cannot have.

Love.  Family.  Home.

The life he’d left behind years ago.  Bits and pieces of old dreams, now obscured by the dust and blood of a gunfighter’s trail.  

Just looking at Cas makes him want.

If they’d met in another time and place, everything might have been different.

He would call on Cas.  Damn the fact that he’s a man.  There would be buggy rides on moonlit nights, summer picnics down by the river, hell he would even bring Cas flowers.

Dean rises slowly and walks toward Cas through the knee deep water.  When they stand only inches apart, he reaches up and touches Cas’ cheek, feeling his heat through the water beaded on his skin. 

Bluebonnets.

There’s a high meadow near the old ranch where they grow wild.  In the spring they’re like a bright blue carpet spreading as far as the eye can see.

He would bring Cas bluebonnets.  Because their color reminds Dean of Cas’ eyes.  He would take Cas there.  Lay him down on a thick blanket of blue velvet petals, and make love to him under the sun and sky.

Dean wants all of that… he wants Cas.

“How do you do that?” Cas’ voice is barely more than a rough whisper, but still deep and fathomless as a mountain lake.

Dean’s eyes fasten on a single droplet of water clinging to his bottom lip.  “Do what?”

“Sneak up on someone like that?”

“You knew I was there.” Dean raises his eyes to Castiel’s.

He recognizes the heat in Dean’s eyes.  It matches the heat building deep in his own belly.  “No,” he argues softly.  “I _felt_ something.  I thought you were one of the Comancheros or another Apache.  You move like one of them.”

“I learned from the Nez Perce.  How to move and see without being seen.”  He frowns slightly as his finger strokes the fullness of Cas’ bottom lip, captivated by the soft curve.  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Cas’ mouth moves under Dean’s finger.  “You’re a very dangerous man, Dean.”

“That’s why you wanted me,” Dean reminds him.

The words jolt through Castiel.  He recognizes the obvious meaning--he’d saved Dean from the gallows to help him hunt down Alistair.  But there’s another, secret meaning that makes him shiver with a deeper, more profound need.

He answers simply.  “Yes, I want you.”  

And then he’s wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck and pulling him into a kiss.

Raw urgency fills him, and he has no patience for tenderness.  His hands plunge into Dean’s hair, gripping the soft strands and angling him for a deeper kiss.  When Dean’s lips part on a moan, Castiel dips his tongue between them.  

Soft sounds rise up in his throat, becoming whispered words as he nibbles at Dean’s lips.  “I want you,” he breathes.  “I need you.”

Danger surrounds them.  Alistair and his Comancheros are close, and how their hunt will end, only God knows.  So if they’re only going to have these last few hours together, Castiel wants all of Dean.  Here and now, before another night, another dawn.

Dean responds like a man dying of starvation, and only Cas can satisfy his hunger.  His hands move without conscious thought, learning and memorizing every hard plane and curve, every supple muscle within reach.  His hands trace the shape of Cas’ back, following the curve of his spine to the firm roundness of his backside.  

He squeezes, relishing the noise Cas makes when he gently spreads the cheeks apart, exposing the tender flesh between to the cool air.  His thumb dips into the forbidden crevice, and Cas arches against him.  The burning length of his cock slides against Dean’s and he guides Cas to rock against him, seeking friction through the barrier of his clothing.

There is no hesitation in Cas, no shyness.  He allows Dean to control the slow grind of their hips together.

It feels like sacrilege to release any part of Cas’ body, but Dean only moves his hand to the back of Cas’ neck.  He presses his thumb up under Cas’ jaw, exposing his throat to Dean’s lips.  Dean kisses down the arch of his neck, bites gently at his fluttering pulse, and moves lower to kiss the tender skin around his new tattoo.

When his lips fasten around Cas’ nipple, the soft gasp it elicits fills him with fierce pride.  That he can take Cas apart so easily.  That no one else has ever done so before.

The thought that someone else might do so in the future makes him growl with possessive need.  If he can’t have Cas as his own, then he’ll leave his mark on the man, leaving him with memories that no one else can ever replace.  

His teeth close over Cas’ nipple, tugging lightly. 

“Dean!”

“You like that.” It’s not a question, but Cas answers by holding Dean’s head in place.  Dean obeys the silent command for more.  He teases and tortures with his lips, tongue, and teeth.  And then he kisses across Cas’ chest and gives the other nipple the same attention.

He’s so focused on the tender flesh under his lips that he’s almost startled by the feather brush of fingers against his stomach.  They linger with uncertainty along the edge of his pants.

Dean guides Cas’ hand, unfastening his pants and pushing them out of the way.  His fingers grip Cas’ wrist almost desperately when Cas’ cool fingers close over his heated length.  He shows Cas the rhythm that drives him wild, and then lets him explore.

He lifts his head and watches Cas as he stares down at his own hand, lips parted with fascination as he squeezes the head of Dean’s cock, coaxing forth a wet pearl from the tip.  Each stroke of his hand makes Dean’s eyes flutter, but he forces them open so he doesn’t miss a moment of Cas’ new experiences.

He’s on the edge far too quickly, and he tightens his hand around Cas’ wrist.  “Not yet,” he grits out when Cas makes a noise of dissent.  He kisses away Cas’ pout, licking at his lips and plunging deeper to taste.

“Dean,” Cas whispers in the barely there space between their mouths.  “I need you.”

“You’ve got me, Castiel,” Dean says.  The taste of the full length of his name is sweet as nectar on his tongue.

When Cas tugs at the edge of his pants, Dean reluctantly breaks the kiss long enough to remove the rest of his clothes.  He tosses the damp garments onto the bank, and reaches for Cas again, intent on full skin to skin contact.

But Cas has his own agenda and avoids Dean’s grasp.  He drops to his knees in the water, and grips Dean’s thighs.  His eyes are wide, fixed on Dean’s cock bobbing in front of him.  His teeth pull at his bottom lip, in one brief moment of uncertainty, and then he’s leaning forward and running his tongue over the crown, pulling a gasp from Dean’s throat.

“Castiel,” Dean rasps, “you don’t have to--”

“I want to,” Cas says.  “Tell me what to do.”

If this is Dean’s last night on earth, it will be the moment when Cas’ lips part around him and he gets to feel the wet heat of his mouth that Dean will be tormented with most when he’s burning in Hell.  No flame can burn as hot.

With Dean’s voice rough and smoky in his ears, Castiel learns the secrets of making love to Dean with his mouth.  He hollows his cheeks and sucks, or nibbles lightly at the head where small beads of bitter liquid smear across his lips.  He takes as much of Dean’s length into his mouth as he can-- _not too deep, Castiel, just what’s comfortable--_ and strokes the rest in his fist.  He licks down the length, and plays with the tender globes between Dean’s thighs, smiling when Dean’s voice breaks off with a gasp.

He peers up at Dean, basking in the way his green eyes glaze over with desire and wonder and something else Castiel can’t identify, but seems to echo what he feels deep down inside himself.  Something he’s afraid to even think about, much less voice.  So he doesn’t think, only obeys whispered commands, and watches Dean come apart at the seams.  A fierce sense of accomplishment grows within him with each gasp, each tremble he pulls forth.

Dean is at his breaking point, and he wants nothing more than to spill inside the wet heat of Cas’ mouth, or paint his claim over Cas’ lips and cheeks.  But he doesn’t want to chase only his own pleasure, not with Cas, who deserves so much more.  The whine of protest Cas makes when Dean pulls away from his mouth and hands will haunt Dean, and he stores the memory away for a future that he may not have.

“Not yet,” he murmurs as he coaxes Cas back to his feet.  

Cas’ lips are pink and swollen, and Dean can’t resist the temptation.  He covers them with his own, and shows Cas with his tongue what he’d wanted to do with his cock, plunging deep and rhythmic between his lips.  

His hands grip Cas’ backside again, leveraging their hips together.  They both tilt their heads down, watching their cocks catch and slide against each other.

“Dean,” Cas moans into the heated space between them.

“Feels good?”

Castiel can only nod.  It feels primal, an ancient instinct fulfilled.  He watches, rapt, as their skin pulls and slides together.  

He’s distracted when Dean’s fingers slip into the space between his thighs.  Pleasure spikes over every nerve ending, and he comes up on his toes with a gasp.  But then he’s pushing back into the unexpectedly thrilling caress.  Dean’s fingers tease with light touches and firm pressure.  

His eyes lock on Dean’s in shock.

Dean smiles like a pleased cat.  “That feels good too.”  He presses their foreheads together and strokes the sensitive skin, circling Cas’ entrance again and again.  “Feels real good to have something inside,” he whispers.  He presses until the tip of his finger nudges inside.

“A finger-” he kisses Castiel then, licking inside his mouth, “a tongue-” Castiel gasps at the wicked image Dean’s words create for him, “or a cock,” Dean finishes roughly.

Castiel would never have imagined wanting such a thing, but his hips press against Dean’s touch, seeking a deeper pressure.  “Will you…?”

Dean groans and presses his finger deeper.  “I want to.  God, I’d give anything to feel how hot,” a kiss, “and tight you are.  But not this time.  I don’t want to hurt you.”

Castiel wants to protest that he knows Dean won’t hurt him.  But Dean speaks first.

“There are other things I want to show you.”  His fingers are suddenly gone, his hands reappearing to grip the back of Castiel’s thighs.

“Wrap your legs around me,” Dean orders.  And then he’s lifting Castiel.

Mindless to everything except the need that claws inside him, Castiel obeys the order.  He gasps when the hot line of Dean’s cock comes to rest against the intimate spaces that Dean had been touching before.  

Ripples spread across the surface of the water as Dean carries Castiel deeper into the water.  It’s cold at first, but grows warmer with each step.  By the time they’re shoulder deep, the water is luxuriantly warm.

“Hot springs,” Dean says in response to the wonder in Cas’ eyes.  

With the water buoying Cas’ weight in his arms, Dean adjusts their hips so that their cocks are trapped between their bodies.  His fingers search out Cas’ inner heat again, and it nearly drives him out of his mind the way his touch makes Cas squirm against him.

“Hold on tight,” he orders, and then guides Cas’ body against his in a timeless rhythm.

Their mouths crash together as their bodies move in sync.  They breathe as one, whispering broken versions of each other’s names whenever the tiniest gap between their lips allow them to speak.  

Feverish hunger sears through Castiel.  He burns up from the inside with each stroke, each caress.  Every smooth stroke of fevered flesh on flesh makes him clutch tighter to Dean, wanting to banish every inch of space between them.  Warm water laps around his shoulders and neck, and drags at his limbs, making everything seem to simmer, and he wonders how the heat Dean stokes inside him doesn’t boil every drop of water away.

“Dean!” Castiel gasps as his body begins to shudder with shockwaves of bliss.

“I know,” Dean’s mouth moves over his, then to his ear.  “Let it happen, Castiel… just let it happen.”

Castiel cries out softly against Dean’s shoulder, and Dean’s fingers grip him with bruising force as he thrusts against Castiel again… again… and then he’s gasping Castiel’s name into the skin of his throat.  His muscles clench against Castiel’s and he goes rigid, clutching Castiel tight enough to pull him over the precipice with him.

For long moments, Dean holds fast to the man in his arms, listening to the heavy sawing of his breath and feeling the flutter of his pulse.  Cas’ head rolls forward, cradled on Dean’s shoulder, with Dean’s cheek pressed to Cas’ wet hair.

Then he shifts his hold, and starts moving through the water again.

Cas’ head lolls toward him.  “What are you doing?” he murmurs, huskiness lingering in his throat.

“I intend to have you again,” Dean says, his lips caressing Cas’ ear.

He finds a rocky outcrop where he can sit down in the water while keeping Cas firmly in his lap.  Cas lifts his head and meets Dean’s gaze with hazy blue eyes. 

“Again?” Castiel asks, and then smiles when Dean reaches between them and gently fondles his spent cock, massaging around it and sending tingles of pleasure through his belly.

“Again,” Dean whispers.  “And again and again,” he promises, pressing feather soft kisses along Castiel’s skin.

* * *

Castiel wakes when a sudden brush of cool air invades his warm cocoon of blankets and Dean’s arms.  Goosebumps rise up over the bare skin it touches, and he shivers as Dean moves away from his side.  He is instantly alert.  “What is it?”

He can’t see Dean, but he feels the warmth of his fingers against his cheek, then the heat of his mouth when he kisses Castiel.  

“I’m going to have a look around.  Stay here, and take this.”

The cold butt of a gun presses into his palm.  Castiel feels the inscriptions carved into the handle.  The Colt.

And then Dean is gone, fading into the dark.  More silent than the wind in the trees or the quiet lap of water from the pool.

Castiel is immediately on edge.  He should be used to Dean’s nightly wanderings, but every time he does it, Castiel is reminded of the danger they’re in.  Somewhere out there, Alistair and his men make their camp.

Feeling exposed and defenseless, despite having possession of the Colt, Castiel rises from their shared bedroll and dresses quickly, also pulling on his duster to protect him from the crisp midnight air.  He sits down to wait, the Colt in hand.

Several times he thinks he hears the snap of a twig underfoot.  The horses snort at some trailing scent on the breeze, and Castiel watches Baby intently.  But she eventually calms.  It’s not as comforting as it should be.

He tries counting minutes as his eyes strain against the darkness.  All he can make out is the shape of the horses, the upper edge of the treeline, and a faint glimmer of moonlight on the water.

A noise jerks him back to awareness and he realizes he’d dozed off.  How long had he slept?

His grip tightens on the gun, his finger hovering near the trigger but not over it.  He strains every sense, trying to catch any sound, any movement.  Any sign of Dean.

He’s been gone too long.

Castiel stands and turns in a slow circle, wondering if he should risk trying to find Dean in the dark.  To make sure nothing has happened to him.  It seems impossible, but not even Dean is infallible.  And if he’s been hurt while Castiel was sleeping…

A faint rustle of branches startles one of the horses.  Castiel whirls around, but he’s not fast enough.  A hand clamps firmly across his mouth, smothering his yell.

Castiel expects fear, but instead he’s filled with fierce rage at his assailant.  He swings his arm up, intent on putting a bullet in the man, but his wrist is caught in a punishing grip.  He grunts angrily and braces to break free.

“Cas! It’s me!” Dean hisses at his cheek.

Castiel twists out of Dean’s grasp and whirls on him.  “I could have shot you!” he whispers angrily.

Dean holds up his hands.  In supplication or mock surrender?  Castiel can’t tell with the darkness obscuring his face.

“I was trying to stop that from happening.  If I’d walked into camp and you’d shot me, the noise would bring everyone on this mountain down on us.”

“ _And_ I would have shot you,” Castiel points out in annoyance over how close it had come to happening.

There’s a flash of white in the moonlight.  Dean’s grin is also audible when he speaks.  “That would have been bad, yeah.” Then he sobers and adds, “It seemed the thing to do.  I’ll be more careful next time.”

Castiel accepts the apology with a nod, and turns his focus to what else Dean mentioned.  “Did you see someone?” he keeps his voice low.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but turns toward the water.  Castiel grabs his arm.  “Dean?”

He gasps when his fingers brush something damp and sticky on Dean’s sleeve.  The coppery scent of blood hits him then, and fear rises in his throat.  “You’re hurt?”

“I’m all right.” Dean heads for the water.  He kneels on the bank and strips off his shirt.  

In the soft glow of the moonlight reflecting from the pool’s surface, Castiel sees the dark shadow of blood staining his chest.  But there’s no wound.  It’s not Dean’s blood.

“What happened?”

“I found one of Alistair’s men,” Dean answers grimly.  “Luckily he wasn’t possessed.”

“Do you think he found our camp?”

“No, he was too far up the mountain, and this place is practically invisible until you’re right on top of it.”  He’s silent for a moment while he rinses away the blood.  “My guess is that Alistair and the others have a camp not too far above us.  He was on a hunting trip; the game is better down here.”

“Then they haven’t reached the hideout yet.”

Cas doesn’t disappoint him.  Dean knew he’d draw the correct conclusion.  He wishes he hadn’t.  But Dean answers truthfully.  “No, they haven’t.”

Cas is already striding for the horses.  Dean knows exactly what he’s thinking.  With a curse, he springs up and goes after Cas, grabbing him by the arm just as Cas reaches for the gelding’s bridle.  “Only a fool would set out after dark, Cas.”

“There’s several hours before first light, and we can cover a lot of distance.” Cas jerks away from him.

Alistair and his men have no reason to think they’re being followed, and likely won’t ride out until dawn.  Cas is right, and Dean knows it.  But Cas is not right about leaving right now.

“No, Cas!”  Dean grabs him again, forces him to turn around and listen.  “We’ll set out at dawn, just like we have the last two days.  We can move faster in daylight.  It’s too dangerous going after him in the dark.  The terrain is uneven, and if your horse takes a wrong step you’ll go over the edge of a ravine.”

Dean’s words are logical, but Castiel notices he doesn’t mention his own horse.  “You’re familiar with the terrain and can keep us on a safe path,” he points out.  “That’s why I brought you along.  I’m not worried about accidents.”

He yanks his arm out of Dean’s hand and reaches again for the bridle, slipping it onto the gelding with efficient ease.  Then he reaches for the saddle blanket.

Dean clenches his jaw.  So, it’s down to that-- _the reason he’d brought Dean along._   The words eat at him in a way he wouldn’t have guessed.

With a curse, he shoves Cas away from his horse and hauls the saddle blanket from the back of the gelding.

“What are you doing, Dean?”

“Emphasizing a point.”

“Which is?”

“Something you just admitted, Mr. Jameson.” The name feels wrong on his tongue.  But everything about this whole situation feels wrong, and his anger does not allow him to voice the name he’d been whispering in passion mere hours earlier.  “I know these mountains and you don’t.  Without me, you won’t find the hideout, and you won’t find Alistair.  We do this my way, or you can just get that sweet ass of yours down this mountain on your own and you can forget about Alistair.”

“You’re forgetting about your pardon,” Castiel reminds Dean, anger flaring inside him.

Dean turns on him, the moonlight emphasizing the hardened angles and planes of his face, and revealing his own anger.  “I can stay down here in Mexico until hell freezes over, and no one can touch me.”

He’s right.  If he decides to stay here, Castiel can’t stop him, and he’ll be safe from the law here.  Assuming no more bounty hunters come looking for him, or that the greedy Las Cruces sheriff will give up on collecting his reward.  But Castiel knows something about Dean, and he uses it.  “You don’t want to stay in Mexico though,” he says softly.

The words stop Dean.  He’s right, and they both know it.

And Castiel feels dirty for speaking the truth under such circumstances.  But he can’t take it back now.  He takes a deep breath and runs his fingers through the tangles of his hair.

“We both need something, Dean,” he says quietly, regret and sadness deepening his voice.  “With that pardon, you and your brother will be free men.  The slate will be wiped clean, and you’ll have a new life.  You and Sam can go home.  Don’t you want that?”

Dean wants it.  With a longing that comes from years of living on the move, thankless hunts, running from the law, the loneliness of nameless towns, and the emptiness of an hour or two with warm bodies who remain faceless in his memories.

He lived the shadow of a life, having neither light nor substance; always lived at the edge of darkness because it’s safer for the man he’d become.

If he can’t go back, all the dreams he’d kept alive for so long will die.  A man can only live for so long on dreams.  Eventually they fade away into the shadows until nothing remains.

But there had been something more, in those brief hours they’d shared earlier.  He’d almost begun to feel alive again.  In that small space of time, he’d forgotten the loneliness, the emptiness, and the blood.  In Cas’ arms, he’d found light.

Looking at Cas now, seeing the closed expression in his eyes, Dean knows that what he’d thought he’d found had been just one more lie.  One more shadow.

“I’ll keep my part of the bargain,” he says quietly.  “I’ll take you to Alistair.  But we do it my way, because there won’t be a pardon if we get ourselves killed.  Is that understood?”

Castiel wants to argue.  The need for vengeance, for _justice_ , needles at him.  But Dean is right, he can’t do this without him.  Slowly, he nods.  “Understood.”

Dean’s mouth thins into a hard line.  “We’ll ride at dawn.  The horses need rest, and so do I.”

The reply comes after a long hesitation.  “Agreed.”

“And don’t go riding off by yourself,” Dean adds.  “I don’t want to have to comb this mountain just because you decided to set off on your own.  You’ll get yourself killed, and neither of us will get what we want.”

After another long moment, Cas nods again.  “All right.  We do it your way.”

They ride out at daybreak.

An icy chill hangs over them and the mountain, making the very air ache.  Castiel pulls his duster closer around his body, and tries not to let his mind linger on Dean, but it’s nearly impossible.  The intangible thing growing between them had come to a turning point during the night they’d just spent together.  In those few hours, he’d forgotten about his brother’s death, and the demon that had been wreaking havoc on families across the territories.  

For that short time, there had only been Dean and the feelings he stirs in Castiel’s heart.

Now that too lies cold inside him.  The angry words they exchanged had seen to that.  It seems there is no escaping the consequences of his hastily spoken threat.

Nor is there any escaping the changing seasons that sweep down on the mountain with a vengeance.  As if sensing the cold shoulder Dean is giving Castiel, the sky wraps an icy blanket around them, making their breath steam in the chilly air.  

It’s a warning that time is short, in so many ways.

They stop briefly at midday, water the horses, and eat a cold meal.  Then they continue up the mountain.

Dean leads them up what seems an invisible path, up the rim of a high canyon wall.  They pass the mouth of a magnificent waterfall, where rainbows glisten as sunlight plays in the mist.  The cascade roars like a huge, thundering beast as it falls hundreds of feet into a deep mountain pool.  

Castiel watches the play of light and color and wishes that the grim duty leading them forward could allow him to enjoy the view.

That night they make camp in the shelter of rocks that protect them from the wind.  Castiel still aches with cold, that has only little to do with the chill air, and everything to do with the fact that Dean sleeps in his own blanket several feet away.

He sleeps poorly.  Somewhere in the night he’s aware of Dean leaving camp.  He snuggles more tightly into his blanket, his fingers curled over the horn handle of the knife Sam had given him.  Through sheer force of will, he sleeps.

Some time later, he stirs.  Something tickles at his senses, rousing a distant memory.

It’s a subtle scent.  Rotten and sour, it seeps into his awareness, and he fights his way up from sleep.

It’s too late.  A hand clamps brutally over his mouth and nose, smothering any sound he might make.  At the same time a weight comes down on his chest and arms. 

Castiel struggles and fights.  The knife is knocked from his hand as lack of air weakens his muscles.  The pressure over his mouth and nose doesn’t let up, leaving Castiel’s lungs screaming for just a sip of life giving air.  

His limbs grow heavy and useless, even as he mentally commands himself to retreive the knife, he feels it slip from limp fingers.

He can’t breathe, and he can no longer fight.

Everything goes gray slowly at the edges of his vision, until it goes dark altogether, his last thought one of desperation and sorrow.

_Dean!_


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Threats of rape and mentions of torture.

The sun is an orange ball on the horizon, half shrouded by purple clouds over blue-black mountains.  Light trickles through ice crystals hanging from branches, throwing rainbow prisms across the small clearing.

Dean crouches low, forearms resting on his bent knees.  He stares unseeing into the dawn, heedless of the beauty around him.  Fingers of sunlight rest across his face, making shadows around his eyes and under the hard line of his mouth.  They reflect off the silver blade of Sam’s demon killing knife that he clutches in one hand, and illuminate the polished wood beads and turquoise cross of the broken rosary dangling from his other hand.

He’d found them both in the folds of Cas’ empty blankets.

He slowly rises to his feet, sheathing the knife, and tucking the rosary in his shirt pocket closest to his heart.

Preparation to leave only takes him a few minutes.  He leaves Cas’ saddle hidden in the rocks, then swings his own atop the geldings back, then ties their saddlebags behind it.  With efficient fingers he rechecks the load of his rifle, and the Colt.  Then he swings astride the gelding.

He finds the trail in the cold, hard-packed ground.  The air is cold, his breath a thin white vapor as images from the past freeze his mind.  Another wintry day, not unlike this one.

_A four year old boy stands in the middle of a field, dressed in a thin shirt and pants.  He wears no hat, no coat, and his clothes are singed and stained with soot.  It’s bitter cold, and tears stream down his face, blinding him and freezing on his cheeks._

_He stands weakly, clutching his squalling baby brother to his chest.  The rhythmic scrape of a shovel biting through frozen ground is the only other sound as his father scrapes out a grave.  When the hole is deep enough, the digging stops, and his father gently lowers a body wrapped in tarp into the earth.  The soot covering his face is streaked with tears as he covers the burned body of his beloved wife in the frozen earth._

_Afterwards, John Winchester staggers across the ranch yard, past the smouldering ruins that used to be their home, and enters the barn.  All the horses but one had fled.  John saddles the Appaloosa, and lifts Dean and Sammy up onto her back and mounts up behind them.  His body is warm at Dean’s back, and his touch is soft on Sammy’s cheek, even though it does nothing to calm the tiny boy._

_“I need your help, Dean,” John mutters as he tucks the thin blanket tighter around the fragile infant in Dean’s arms.  “You’ve gotta take care of Sammy, okay?”_

_“Yes, pa,” Dean murmurs.  His arms tighten around his little brother, and he puts his lips close to Sammy’s ears.  He sings what he can remember of the lullaby his mama used to sing to them at bedtime._

_John guides the Appaloosa away from the ruins of their home, turning them away from what was left of Dean and Sammy’s childhood and innocence._

_“No matter how long it takes,” John promises.  He would find the demon that took their mother._

“No matter how long it takes,” Dean repeats as he urges the gelding higher up the mountain, with Baby trailing behind.

He follows the tracks until they disappear under the light snow that starts falling a few hours into his search.  Picking up the trail again takes precious time, and he curses the clouds scudding overhead.

The second day of his search, the tracks are completely covered by the snow.  Half a dozen times he finds them, only to lose them again.  But at least the snow seems to be affecting how quickly the men he’s following can travel as well. 

There are two horses, one with deeper tracks indicating that it is burdened by two riders.  Dean pushes the gelding hard, riding long after dark when he has to stop because the trail becomes too perilous.

His only consolation when he’s forced to stop is that the men he’s following must stop too.

He eats little and sleeps less.  He can’t afford to have those men find him the same way they’d found Cas.  Fatigue and cold fury are a lethal combination, and when the horses are resting he alternately sharpens Sam’s knife, and checks the Colt.

Old fears churn inside him.  He wants to keep going, ride right through the night and get Cas back.  But once, lack of caution had cost him his freedom, and nearly cost him Sam as well.

He knows the kind of men who follow Alistair.  They’re brave in numbers, ruthless at best, bloodthirsty at worst.  They are men bound for Hell without needing to sell their souls first.  Men whose souls are already demon-black from their evil deeds on Earth.

If Dean finds them and rides into their camp, there’s every possibility they will kill Cas without hesitation.

In the quiet moments when he’s forced to stop, questions eat at him.  

Do they know who Cas is?

Probably not.  Cas is smart enough not to reveal he’s a Pinkerton.  He’ll realize that would only make things worse.  Comancheros take particular delight in killing lawmen.  And if there’s a demon holding him captive, that death will be slower and more painful.

Are they taking him to Alistair?

The trail heads steadily southwest, into the deep canyons.  It’s the general direction of Alistair’s oldest hideout.  If they continue south, he’ll have his answer.

The last question is the most difficult to think of.  

Is Cas still alive?

Dean has to believe he is.  The tracks indicate one of the horses is carrying two riders, but that doesn’t mean it’s Cas.  Whoever had taken him could have killed him and dropped him in the forest for the animals to feast on, and Dean may never find him.  They have no reason to keep him alive, but if one of the riders is a demon, they’ll want to keep Cas for amusement and entertainment on the trail.  As long as Cas doesn’t cause too much trouble.

A bitter taste rises in his mouth at the thought of Cas being used for a demon’s pleasure.

He hasn’t seen signs of struggle or any blood in the snow.  No screams have echoed through the cold mountain air.  So Dean clings to hope.

But if they’re taking Cas to Alistair…

He can’t think of that.

A bitter wind comes up, and Dean pulls his hat low over his face as he gazes into the distance.  Cas is resilient, and smart.  And Dean will continue to believe he’s alive until he finds proof otherwise.

He lets the horses rest for a couple hours, then sets out again.  The last tracks he’d picked up indicated the riders are just as weary as he is, but Dean can’t afford to let them get any farther ahead of him.

_Cas_ can’t afford it.

Late in the morning of the next day, Dean stops next to a creek.  Cas’ gelding stands with its head dipped low, trembling and heaving for breath.  The climb up the steep grade all morning has been difficult, and the gelding can go no further.

Dean removes the saddle and saddle bags, and swings them onto Baby’s back.  Then he takes a few minutes to rub the gelding down, whispering his thanks to the animal before releasing him to find his own way back down the mountain.

He pulls himself onto Baby’s back, and they continue their trek up the mountain, following the trail until it disappears over some loose shale.  Just past midday he picks it up again.  They’re headed south.

* * *

“Puto!”

Castiel gasps when a rough hand clamps over the back of his neck and jerks him back from the edge of the stream.  He loses his balance and falls to his side on the damp ground.  It’s difficult enough trying to drink with his hands bound before him, and his face is streaked with icy water.  Now on top of that his hip and shoulder ache from the impact.

His hands haven’t been untied since he’d been taken captive, and his wrists ache from the unnatural angle he’s been forced to hold them in.  The tips of his fingers burn from the cold water, and the snow as he braces himself so that his face doesn’t end up in the mud.

A boot digs into his side, forcing the air out of his lungs.

“Get up, puto!”

Even though his Spanish is still spotty, that is a word he understands.  _Whore._   It’s used to humiliate and belittle, but he’s more worried about the implications of how he’s intended to be used when they reach their destination.

Wherever that may be.  They’ve been traveling steadily south, but are they taking him to Alistair?  Or one of the other camps hidden among the countless peaks and canyons?

With some difficulty, he manages to get back to his feet.  He meets his captor’s gaze with cold indifference.  He masks the pain in his body where fists and boots have left throbbing bruises, refusing to give them any pleasure in his suffering.

His insolence earns him a backhand across the mouth.  He twists away from the blow to lessen its impact, but still feels his lip split open.  Lifting his head high, he looks at his captor again, and licks the blood oozing slowly from his bruised lip.

The coppery taste reminds him he’s alive.  He clings to that.  Along with the certainty that Dean will find him.

A few times in the last few days doubt has crept in.  They hadn’t exactly been on good terms after their fight.  But then he remembers the tenderness of Dean’s touch, and the softness in his eyes during those magical hours before anger rose up between them.

Dean won’t abandon him.

An unseen force slams into the back of his legs, driving him to his knees.  The shock of impact makes him cry out, but he lifts his chin and resumes his defiant stare.

The man in front of him laughs, a wheezy honking noise that reminds Castiel of an angry mule.  He grabs Castiel’s arm and hauls him back to his feet, dragging him through the mud and snow to the horses, then shoves him roughly until he’s in the saddle before mounting up behind him.  

He’s more slightly built than his companion, so the horse can more easily carry both their weight.  His clothes are filthy, his hair oily and matted, and a sour stink hovers around him in a cloud.  He’s young, barely past the cusp of manhood, so Castiel has silently dubbed him “The Boy”.

The Boy’s companion is disgusting as well, but not because of lack of simple hygiene.  His clothes are travel stained, but look well cared for.  His long hair is pulled back in a neat plait, and his beard is well groomed.  But he smells strongly of rotten eggs, and being near him makes Castiel’s skin crawl.

His eyes are cold, emotionless, and black as death.  

He’s not human.  And he’s the reason that Castiel hasn’t tried harder to escape.  When those eyes turn on him, unseen strikes land on his flesh, and he knows without a doubt that if he attempted to run, they wouldn’t even need to put a bullet in his back to stop him.

Castiel calls him “Black Eyes” in his mind.

Giving them nicknames helps him focus his thoughts.  Do these men follow Alistair?  It would make sense; Sam had told him that lesser demons follow Alistair because they enjoy joining in the devastation he leaves in his wake.

Castiel clings to the saddle as the horse lunges across the stream.  They set a grueling pace, riding all day and most of the night, heedless of the dangerous terrain.  And Castiel wonders if even Dean will be able to keep up with them.

* * *

Dean kneels in the slush and mud created by melting snow.  The storm had passed briefly that morning, letting the sun banish the ice and snow building up on the slopes.  But now more clouds are gathering overhead.  There will be more snow by nightfall.

He removes his gloves, tracing a footprint in the mud with his bare fingers.  It’s well formed, made by a soft-soled boot without a heel.  Just like Dean’s.  And the boots he’d given Cas.

Dean swings back into the saddle.  Now  he has confirmation that Cas is with the men he’s following, and at least for the moment still alive.  

_“Dad’s alive, Dean!  We have to save him!”_

_John Winchester’s body may be walking and talking, but Dean isn’t convinced that it still contains his soul.  And if it does…_

_Dean fingers the handle of the Colt as he stares at the walls of the cabin where a creature that looks like his father is hiding.  This may be their last chance to destroy the yellow eyed demon for good.  To get the revenge John has been hunting for more than twenty years._

_But if he pulls the trigger, Dean will lose another member of his family.  And he’s not sure he can do that._

_The decision isn’t his to make.  When all hell breaks loose and their attack plans crumble.  When Sam is holding the gun, pointing it at their father’s head as John struggles to hold the demon inside him at bay, ordering Sam to pull the trigger._

_When Sam hesitates.  He’s never been good at taking orders.  But Dean?  He’s the well trained soldier John raised him to be._

_Every bone in his body screams in agony as he drags himself off the floor.  His heart feels like a mass of pulp in his chest as he approaches Sam and takes the Colt from his hand._

_He ignores Sammy’s whimpered protest, and lifts the gun._

_John’s smile is proud and full of love when Dean’s finger tightens over the trigger.  His eyes flash yellow when he loses control at the last second, as the Colt’s hammer falls…_

Dean pushes Baby as hard as he can, but the trail through the canyon is a rough one.  By nightfall he’s forced to let Baby rest or risk losing her.

He rests, but doesn’t sleep.  Sleep brings dreams, and he doesn’t want to face any more ghosts from the past.

Despite having no appetite he eats hardtack and jerky, washing them down with water.  He risks building a small fire sheltered by some rocks so it won’t be seen.  As he sits near its warmth, he curses every minute he’s forced to delay.  

His eyes sting from smoke and fatigue.  Fear and an old, familiar pain eat at him.  Along with the impotent fury that has driven him most of his life.  The fury that drove him to hunt monsters at his father’s side, and to kill the yellow eyed demon that destroyed his family.

He’d thought that would be the end of it.  That he could go back to a normal life after getting his revenge.  But being a hunter isn’t easy to walk away from, and there were always more monsters to hunt.  And sometimes the monsters hunt back.

It’s happening all over again.  And the image of his father’s face before his eyes had turned yellow looms in Dean’s memory.

He can’t let that happen now--he can’t lose Cas.

The cold steel of the Colt is reassuring beneath his hand.

At dawn, he continues on and discovers the Comancheros had also stopped to rest.  They had pushed the horses almost to the limit, alternately carrying double weight, but they’re smart enough to realize that without horses they have no chance of surviving in these mountains, much less of reaching the hideout.

He finds their abandoned camp in an old cliff dwelling just after midday.  The remains of their campfire are still warm.  

He’s only a few hours behind them.

* * *

Castiel is exhausted.  It has been four days since his abduction, and between being beaten and pushed past his endurance on the grueling ride, he’s barely able to stay in the saddle.  If he thought it would get them to leave him behind, he would release his tenuous hold on his balance and let himself slide to the snowy ground.

In the interchange of conversation, a mix of Spanish and English, he’d picked up a familiar name.  Alistair.  And Castiel is being brought to the hideout Dean had spoken of.

After all this time he would finally come face to face with the man who murdered his brother.  As a prize to be toyed with and used.  And when they tire of him?  Then what will his fate be?

He has tried to avoid confronting it, unwilling to accept that his hunt would end this way.  But bitterness and fear twist deep inside him, and he faces the reality that he’ll end up dead at Alistair’s hand, just as Emmanuel did.

Dean had told him countless times that it was a possibility, but Castiel hadn’t _really_ thought it possible.  Not with his newfound knowledge of hunting, and exorcisms, and the Colt that can kill anything.  The desire for justice had been too strong, too deep.  

Now, glaring at his captors, he straightens his spine and refuses to accept that he’ll die this way.  Dean is still out there with the Colt.  There’s still a chance for him.

And if not?  Then he hopes like hell that Dean will destroy the demon anyway.  

Maybe not for Castiel’s sake.  But for his own.  If this hunt ends with Castiel’s death, then Dean at least deserves the closure of destroying the demon who held him captive and tormented him.

They stop at the summit of a gorge that they had been climbing for most of the morning.  Castiel constantly watches the mountainside below them, hoping against hope that Dean is close behind.  So far he’d seen nothing, and it takes more and more effort as each hour passes to smother the feelings of despair that threaten to overwhelm him.

He has no reason--or right--to think Dean will come after him, or to even care that he’s gone.  But every time he forces himself to face the harsh reality that Dean may abandon him, another reality seeps into his thoughts.  The reality of that night on the desert when they’d first made love, the ride back from the meadow when Dean had taken him apart with his mouth and hands, and the night at the mountain pool when he’d driven Castiel’s body to the brink of pleasure over and over.

Whenever the doubt is strongest, he recalls the way Dean said his name-- _Castiel_ \--with such warmth and tenderness.

Dean will come for him.  Castiel just prays that he finds him in time…

He’s thought many times of leaving behind some kind of marker at intervals along the way, just in case Dean loses their trail, but he dismissed the idea early on.  He’s too closely watched, and there isn’t anything he can leave behind.

His hands shake as he accepts a canteen of water that Black Eyes offers him.  He keeps his eyes downcast, unable to stomach looking into those emotionless black pits.

So far, most of the abuse has come from The Boy.  He seems to get a thrill from slapping and kicking Castiel, especially when he’s down on the ground.  Black Eyes only watches, occasionally prodding Castiel with his power to make it easier for his smaller companion to control him.  But it’s always possible that Black Eyes will decide that he wants to do more.

He drinks the water sparingly, taking only what he needs to wet his mouth and throat.  Moments of privacy are nonexistent.  When they’re absolutely necessary, Castiel is tied to the end of a short rope and allowed to go into the brush.  But with the way Black Eyes follows him with his gaze, Castiel is constantly wary that he might follow him.

Castiel is careful not to provoke him.  He seems patient and calm, but if he’s possessed, as Castiel suspects, he could become violent at the slightest provocation.

Black Eyes grunts at his younger companion that they should be on their way.  When Castiel moves a little too slowly, the Boy lunges at him.  He spits several curses at Castiel in Spanish, and shoves him toward the horses.  

Castiel stumbles and nearly falls, but the Boy grabs the back of his coat, jerking him around.  In a small act of foolish defiance, Castiel tries to twist away.  Shouting more unknown Spanish, his captor seizes Castiel by the front of his shirt, tearing the fabric as he pulls Castiel toward the horses.

When the chill air hits Castiel’s bare chest, he gasps and tries to smack the Boy’s hands away so he can pull his coat closed.  The altercation catches Black Eyes’ attention, and with sickening awareness, Castiel sees the abrupt change in his expression when his gaze finds the healing tattoo revealed through the torn shirt.

He approaches in two long strides and shoves his younger companion out of the way.  An invisible power holds Castiel still, not allowing him to stumble away and prevent the man from ripping his shirt open all the way.  

The white of the man’s eyes disappears completely, destroying any illusion of humanity.  Even without being able to see where his eyes are pointed, Castiel can feel the demon’s gaze on the tattoo like a physical touch.  The idea that the demon may be actually touching him without using its vessels hands makes him shudder in his invisible bonds.

“You are a Hunter,” Black Eyes murmurs.  His tongue flicks out over his lips, and Castiel nearly expects him to lean forward and take a bite out of him.  His mouth twists into a rictus grin, and he looks directly into Castiel’s eyes.  “Alistair will be most pleased with you.  Hunters are his favorite toys.”

He reaches up and presses a finger against the tender flesh under the tattoo.  It burns like a brand, and Castiel hisses as pain radiates out across his chest and into his shoulder.  When Black Eyes removes his touch, Castiel expects to look down and see smoke rising from blackened skin.  But the tattoo, and his skin underneath it, remains intact.

“I could burn it out of existence,” the demon says, still smiling.  “Take your body for my own.  You’re a very handsome vessel.” It slides its finger up Castiel’s throat, pressing his chin up and tilting it back and forth.  “Maybe there would be less crying from my bed partners.” He laughs coldly.  “Although that would hardly be enjoyable for me.”

“Why don’t you?” Castiel risks asking.

“Not before Alistair has tired of you,” Black Eyes says with a regretful sigh.  “Hopefully when he’s tired of you, you will still be pretty enough to wear.”  He leans close, and his breath is hot and sour as rotten eggs.  “We will have our time, señor.  Worry not.”

He shoves Castiel away from him with a laugh.  The invisible bonds holding Castiel upright disappear, and he collapses to the frozen ground.

Only inches from Castiel’s fingers a long knife rests in the mud, its blade gleaming dully.  The Boy must have dropped it as they struggled.

Hiding the movement behind his long coat as he stands, he grabs the knife and shoves it into his boot before straightening as close to his full height as his bruised and battered body will allow.  While the Comancheros gather their canteens and weapons, Castiel pulls himself astride one of the horses, and gives the impression of meekly waiting for them.  He keeps his head bowed and his eyes averted.

Now he has a weapon.  And, God help him, he’ll use it.  

Even if he has to use it on himself.

* * *

The tracks that rise from the bottom of the gorge disappear among the rocks.

Dean doubles back half a dozen times, wasting precious time, as he searches for the trail to pick up again.  He finally finds it along the ridge.  The tracks all run together, and it’s impossible to make out whether one of them is the soleless impressions made by Castiel’s soft leather boots. 

It’s also impossible to determine how long ago they’d passed this way.  One hour? Three? Or more?  He curses the loss of valuable time from trying to rediscover the trail.

A flash of soft color catches his eye, and he turns his head.  There, a flutter of fabric as the late afternoon wind comes up along the ridge and catches it.  Dean catches it under his boot, and crouches down to pick it up.

It’s a long strip of red plaid.  The kind found in a man’s shirt.  He recognizes the black and red pattern.

Old pain knifes through him, and time slips away.  His vision blurs, from the wind or the pain remembering brings.  Now the fabric that flutters at his fingertips is stained with blood.

_The man lasted four days.  Despite having strip after strip of skin peeled from his flesh by Dean’s bloodied knife and fingers._

_The screams had stopped hours ago, fading to gurgling grunts and choked prayers.  Dean had pressed the knife deeper, hoping to find more nerve endings to pluck at, to make the man sing Alistair’s favorite music._

_When the man’s chest sinks on his final, wheezing breath, there’s a swell of pride in Dean’s chest.  It isn’t his own.  If he had power over his own body, he’d be a retching, crying mess._

_He’d cry with the pain of loss and anger.  With impotent rage for what the demon riding inside him forces his hands to do.  And for the times Alistair’s control disappeared, and Dean’s knife still kept moving, cutting through skin and muscle and viscera._

_He’d cry for what’s left of his soul, after Alistair carved it into a new, horrifying creature…._

Dean looks up into the setting sun.  An outsider would see that his features are gaunt from relentless tracking, little sleep, and too many memories.  But his eyes burn with a predatory hunger.

Once, a long time ago, other men had taken him, and presented him to Alistair as a gift.  After Sammy had freed him, they’d hunted those men and those demons down, one by one, and killed them.  But he’d been too afraid to go after Alistair himself, terrified of being pulled back into that horrible world he’d suffered for four long months that felt like decades.

Dean swings into Baby’s saddle, and urges her back into a relentless pace.  The plaid fabric of Castiel’s shirt is wound around his fist as he clutches the reins.

Castiel made him angry, made him laugh.  For a small place in time, he’d made Dean feel alive again.

He’s lived with death too long.  And he won’t rest until he finds Castiel.

* * *

Castiel is slumped forward in the saddle of the demon-possessed Comanchero.  They have been riding since early dawn, and now, as their pace slows, he looks up through his matted lashes.  Another mountain rises before the;m, all jagged peaks and hard granite.

He aches with bone deep weariness.  How much farther do they have to go?

This peak looks impossible to climb, rising almost vertical in some places.  

He expects Black Eyes to rein in the weary horse, and send his young compadre on ahead to scout an accessible route.  But he presses on, cutting a path around huge boulders and granite slag.

The wind blows at their backs, and the clouds are ominous overhead, heavy with more snow.  They will probably release their burden before nightfall.  

The snow will obliterate any tracks the horses make, and the small hope he harbored that Dean might follow them shrinks.  As his hope of rescue slowly fades, Castiel tries to memorize landmarks they pass.  The likelihood of escape is almost nonexistent, but he stubbornly refuses to let despair overtake him.

The knife is still snugged inside his boot.  It won’t do much against demons, but he’s been concentrating on his memory of Emmanuel’s journal and the exorcism he’d inscribed on the pages.  When an opportunity presents itself, he’ll escape.

His hand closes over the pommel of the saddle as the horse shifts unexpectedly beneath them.  Black Eyes’ arm snakes around his waist with the pretense of steadying him.

Castiel glares at him over his shoulder, and pushes his hand away.  Knowing he’s meant as a gift and that Black Eyes intends to keep him alive at least long enough to deliver to Alistair has made him more defiant, though he doesn’t push his luck too far.

Black Eyes laughs.  “Save your spirit.  You will need it for when you meet Alistair.”  His sour breath makes Castiel grimace and pull away as far as he can.

He turns the horse, guiding it sharply around a huge cluster of boulders.  They’re forced to duck their heads as they pass through an opening among the rocks just wide enough for them, although the rock scrapes against their knees.

When they emerge, Castiel stares in amazement at the small valley spread out before them.  They had passed through the small opening in the rocks as if passing through a doorway.

As soon as they emerge, he hears the distinct sounds of a rider approaching.  His head snaps up, and his gaze fastens on a man with lean features and thin sandy brown hair.

“Eh, compadres!” he calls in a lisping, nasally voice.  “It’s about time you arrived.”

He looks familiar.  The narrow chin, the high forehead, the hollowness of his sunken cheeks emphasized by the slant of sharp cheekbones.  And the hard eyes that are an unsettling pale color, neither blue nor gray, but colder than ice.  

Castiel looks into the eyes of a man who is more than a cold-blooded murderer who feels no remorse for the men, women, and children he’d left dead.  A man whose reputation for killing is matched only by his reputation for brutality.  A man who is not a man… Alistair White.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where all the worst warnings from the tags apply. Violence, threats of rape, murder, possession, etc.

Castiel is dragged from the saddle and shoved to the floor inside a crudely built, one room cabin.  The dirt floor is cold and hard against his aching knees.  There are places in the walls where he can see fading daylight trickle through gaps where mud caulking had dried and crumbled.

Heat comes from a small stone fireplace, but it wages a losing battle with the cold air seeping through the cracks in the walls.  The scent of rotting food, stale hides, and woodsmoke pervades the air, along with the sulfuric stench of demons.

He only has seconds to take in his surroundings before an unseen force is lifting him, and he’s slammed back against one of the rough hewn walls.  

If Castiel thought he knew true fear, that knowledge is obliterated when Alistair had looked at him for the first time.  His pale eyes widened first in recognition, then delight.  And now he stands before Castiel, looking him over with an intensity that borders on hunger.

Alistair reaches out with one skeletal hand and presses the tips of his fingers under Castiel’s chin, forcing his head up and turning it side to side.  The urge to jerk away and retch is nearly overwhelming, but he isn’t sure he physically can, not with Alistair’s power wrapped so tightly around him.

“What is this?” Alistair murmurs.  “A resurrection of a beloved toy?  Who should I thank for selling their soul to bring you back?”

Castiel’s stomach roils even more violently.  Alistair recognizes him because he’s the mirror image of Emmanuel.  Knowing Alistair enjoyed torturing his brother enough to remember him the better part of a decade later makes him want to cry out in anguish.  He carefully keeps his pain buried, unwilling to give Alistair any reaction that isn’t forced from him.

“No, not a resurrection,” Alistair continues thoughtfully.  His smile widens sickeningly.  “A brother, maybe?  How enchanting.”  His eyes never leave Castiel as he addresses Black Eyes and the Boy.  “Where did you find this treasure?”

The Boy leans toward his companion and whispers conspiratorially “Told you he’d like him.”  He either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care about the flat look the demon gives him.  He’s nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet when he answers Alistair.  “Found him near a water source.  I thought he’d be some interesting entertainment.  And he’s not bad looking.”

Alistair nods thoughtfully.  “He was just wandering around by himself out there?”

The Boy doesn’t notice the dangerous undertones in Alistair’s voice.  “There was no one else.  He was alone.”

“Without a horse?”

For the first time the Boy hesitates.  “Well there were two horses, but he was the only one there.  He put up a struggle and I didn’t want to bring an angry partner down on us.  It was probably some fur trapper.”

Alistair hums thoughtfully and turns pale eyes back on Castiel.  “He’s not a fur trapper.”

“He’s a Hunter,” Black Eyes says.  He gestures at Castiel’s chest.  “Has an anti-possession mark over his heart.”

Alistair’s fingers trail down Castiel’s neck to the collar of his torn shirt.  He pulls the lapel aside, revealing the tattoo that has turned scabbed and itchy in the last few days.  Without looking up from the black ink, he addresses Castiel.  “A Hunter, hm?  Are you here to avenge my dear, sweet Emmanuel?”

“Do not say his name,” Castiel growls.

“Give me yours and I’ll use it instead,” Alistair says sweetly.

Castiel presses his lips together and refuses to speak.  

Alistair only chuckles.  “You’ll sing for me when I want to you, pretty bird.  I wonder if your voice will be as lovely as Emmanuel’s?”

His resolve to remain silent nearly crumbles when Alistair moves close enough that Castiel can feel the demon’s hot breath against his skin.  Alistair sniffs, and leans in even closer, dragging his nose along Castiel’s jaw and leaving the skin crawling in his wake.

The demon lifts his head, and looks at Castiel with even sharper interest.  “Sancho?”  The Boy perks up, eager to please.  “Tell me about the horses.”

The Boy--Sancho--looks confused, but obeys the order.  “One was just a sorrel gelding, and the other one was a real pretty mare.  Dark all over but with a white rump covered in spots.” He lets out a sigh.  “Wish I could have grabbed her, but I was trying to hurry, and this gringo is heavy.”

“An Appaloosa,” Alistair sighs happily.  “Very special, very rare.  Much like someone I know who rides them.”

“You know a man who has such a horse?” Black Eyes asks.

There’s a moment of silence that sends fear tingling down Castiel’s spine.

“Yes,” Alistair breathes.  “I knew such a man a long time ago.”  He turns his pale eyes away from Castiel and addresses Sancho and Black Eyes directly.  “And he’s likely on his way here now.  We will need to prepare a proper welcome for him.  Go and warn the others to watch out for our guest.”

“Who is it?” Sancho asks.

Alistair nearly purrs the name.  “Dean Winchester.”

Black Eyes goes still, his eyes wide with alarm.  “Are you sure?”

“Oh yes.” Alistair’s collars Castiel’s throat with his fingers, but doesn’t apply any pressure.  “I can smell him on our new friend here.” He returns his attention to Castiel and leans in close again, speaking only for his ears.  “I’ve missed his scent… thank you for bringing it back to me.”

A shudder goes through Castiel when he realizes that Alistair _wants_ Dean to come after him.  And suddenly Castiel hopes against hope that Dean will leave him behind.  Ride back down the mountain, get Sam, and ride away as fast and hard as they can.  

“He’s not coming after me.”  It’s a lie.  For all the doubts that rose up in the last few days, Castiel knows Dean better than that.  He’s out there, and he’ll find Castiel.

He’ll find Alistair prepared for him.  Even with the Colt, there’s no way Dean can take on the half-dozen men in the camp, and at least two demons.  

Alistair chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it.  “Oh I think he is.”  He turns and waves a hand at Sancho and Black Eyes, who take the silent order and leave the cabin.

The invisible bonds holding Castiel loosen, and his weight comes down on his own feet.  He’s free, for the moment, although he knows that even with the knife in his boot, he would have no chance of fighting his way out of the cabin.  So he merely stands his ground and waits.

For long moments Alistair simply looks at him.  Castiel doesn’t flinch or look away, forcing himself to meet his gaze squarely, steadily, hiding the fear that claws its way into his throat.  

When Alistair speaks at last, his voice is low and sibilant as a snake’s, even tempered with amusement.  “My my, you’re a brave one.  You _must_ be dear Emmanuel’s brother.  He was also full of such lovely defiance.  It made breaking him all the more delightful.”

Castiel presses his lips tighter together.  Hatred burns away his fear, and he wonders if it would be worth his own death to stab Alistair in the eye and to let Dean avenge him.

Alistair moves in again, close as a lover.  “I can see why Dean has claimed you for his own,” he murmurs.  “You’re magnificent.”  

One of his hands cups Castiel’s jaw, and his lips brush Castiel’s as he speaks.  “I wonder how he found _you_.  He’d left me before I met sweet Emmanuel.  If Dean had still been with me…” he hums as if tasting a delicious morsel.  “Well, I might not have found your brother.  I may have gone on a bit of a spree after I lost dear Dean.  Found my pretty Emmanuel and took out my heartache on him.”

Bile burns in Castiel’s throat.  He keeps his mouth firmly closed, afraid of the questions that clamour to spill out.  Why did he choose Emmanuel?  What was Dean to Alistair?

As if reading his mind, Alistair speaks again.  “You’re wondering if I took them as my lovers?”  His hand slides down Castiel’s chest, pausing on his belly.  His smile turns pleased when he feels the tremble of muscles there.  “Emmanuel didn’t survive long enough, poor dear.”

Castiel huffs out a relieved breath.  But Alistair’s next words nearly destroy him.

“And I was inside Dean in a far more… intimate… manner.”

Oh god.  Oh _god._   Alistair had possessed Dean.  And Sam had become addicted to demon blood in order to save him.  He must have exorcised Alistair from Dean, so he wouldn’t have to kill them both with the Colt.

“Maybe, when I retrieve my beloved Dean, I will take my pleasure from you as I didn’t have a chance to with your brother,” Alistair says thoughtfully.

“He’s going to kill you,” Castiel hisses.  

“He’s certainly going to try,” Alistair says brightly.  He strokes Castiel’s cheek almost fondly.  “And I look forward to punishing him for it.  You will help me with that.”

“I won’t!”

“Dear boy… you won’t have a choice.”

“Go to Hell,” Castiel growls.

Alistair straightens with a put upon sigh.  “Oh if only I could!  But the bosses downstairs just keep sending me back up to this arctic crap-hole.”

“ _Jefe!”_ The urgent cry comes from outside.  

“What is it?” Alistair calls, his cold eyes never leaving Castiel’s.  

The door opens and a man Castiel doesn’t recognize leans in.  “Joaquín’s horse!” It’s in Spanish, but Castiel understands.

Alistair’s gaze cuts away from him to the man in the door, but he only looks mildly curious.  “What about it?” asks in English.

“His horse!” comes the alarmed explanation in heavily accented English.  “It came back alone.  Joaquín is gone!”

Alistair’s gaze slides back to Castiel.  His eyes are like chips of ice embedded in his face, which is twisted with a sick form of elation.  “So it begins.”

He shoves Castiel to the ground, and bares his teeth in warning.  “Stay.  Take advantage of my hospitality.  While it lasts.”

As if Castiel has a choice.  He glares up at Alistair, no longer trying to hide his hatred and loathing.

Alistair smirks, and whirls around, yelling at the Comanchero and Black Eyes in Spanish that Castiel only partially understands.

Castiel scrambles to his feet and moves toward the door.  He catches a brief glimpse of the riderless horse.  It’s badly lathered and trembling, and dangerously skittish, lunging away from the men who surround it.

Then he sees the red stain that streaks the saddle and the horse’s withers.  Fresh blood.

Before he can see more, the door is slammed in his face.  He hears the distinct sound of a heavy crossbar being dropped into place.  He’s locked inside.

Dropping to one knee, he pries his hidden knife from his boot and uses it to cut through the leather ties still wrapped too tightly around his wrists.  Once he’s free, he hides the knife again and rubs at his wrists as he looks around.  

A long table takes up most of the space in the middle of the cabin.  Dried food is crusted on the metal plates littering the surface, and scraps lay about on the floor.  Several bedrolls rest against the far wall, a stack of animal skins fill one corner, and a pile of blankets in another.  A single window is covered with a rawhide skin.  

If he needs a way out, he can cut through that skin.  But doing so in daylight is worse than dangerous, it’s foolish.

Only God knows where he is, let alone whether he can find his way back through the mountains if he manages to escape.  And winter is fast closing in.  It had snowed as they’d ridden deeper into the mountains.  For now it has stopped, but the air carries the familiar cold bite of more snow to come.  Soon enough there will be too much snow for any of them to leave.

And then there’s Alistair.  He’s the reason Castiel came to these mountains and risked so much in the first place.  He can’t leave until he accomplishes what he came for.  How he’ll do that without the Colt is a problem, but now that he’s locked in the cabin alone, he has some time to think and plan.

As they’d ridden into the valley, he’d counted seven men including Alistair and the Comancheros who’d brought him here.  He’d spotted two in the rocks above, rifles cradled in their arms as they watch the entrance to the valley.  Another had ridden out of the valley, probably to relieve one of the spotters.  The last one is an Indian, perhaps Apache.  He’d taken their horses when they arrived.

He wonders what happened to Joaquín.

The door opens, and Castiel turns around quickly to face the new threat.  It’s a young man, younger than Sancho.  And an anglo, with light brown hair and freckles.

His arms are laden with firewood.  He glances at Castiel’s unbound wrists but says nothing as he stacks the logs near the fireplace.  Then he moves open some cloth sacks stacked nearby.

“Who are you?” Castiel demands.

The young man’s shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t look up.  “You can call me Alfie.”

His words do not hold a Spanish accent, and Castiel wonders how far away Alfie’s home is.  “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Making dinner,” Alfie answers simply.  “El jefe does not eat, but the rest of us do.”

“Do you know what he is?” Castiel demands.

Alfie looks up, and the fear in his eyes is all the answer Castiel needs.  “He’s our leader,” he says simply.

“He’s a demon.”

Alfie stands and comes closer, but he hesitates.  “The man who rides the spotted horse.  Do you think he’s coming after you?”

“I don’t know for sure.” When Alfie’s expression falls, Castiel adds “but I think so.”

A sliver of hope returns to the boys eyes.  “I’ve… heard stories about him.”

“What stories have you heard?”

Alfie glances nervously at the door, as if he expects someone to come through it at any moment.  He shakes his head and returns to the hearth to prepare food.

Castiel won’t be put off though.  He kneels down next to Alfie and leans down to try and catch his eye.  “Please, talk to me.”

Alfie keeps his head bowed, and his voice is barely above a whisper.  “El jefe speaks of him often.  As his favorite vessel that got away.  But sometimes…” his voice drops even lower, and Castiel leans forward to hear him. “...sometimes the others speak of the man with fear.  They speak of brothers, Hunters who kill powerful demons with a special gun.”

Dean.  And Sam.

But Sam is back at the ranch, and if Dean is out there, he’s alone against seven--no, six--men.

He thinks of the horse that had returned covered in blood.  It must be Dean.

The man who had been sentenced to hang in Tombstone.  Outlaw, bank robber, train robber, murderer.  Dozens of crimes that he was rumored to be guilty of.  And because he once rode with Alistair’s gang, _as their leader_ , he has a reputation as a cold-blooded gunfighter.  But none of those charges could be proven.  And Castiel knows that the men he’s killed have been monsters.  Vampires and werewolves.  Shapeshifters and flesh eating rugaru.  Demons.

And possibly Joaquín.  Castiel wonders if he were possessed to, or if he was just a human.  A murderer and rapist, probably, if he rides with Alistair’s Comancheros.

He wonders how Alfie came to be here.  The boys eyes are far too kind and full of fear to be one of the Comancheros.  Maybe he was stolen from his family and brought here for the same reason Castiel was before they discovered he is a Hunter.

He senses the boy might be an ally, but he’ll need to gain his trust.  “Can I help you cook?  I’m not very good at it, but…”

Alfie smiles, and it makes him seem even younger.  “That’s all right.  These are not _good_ men.”

Castiel returns his smile.  “I suppose we should try not to poison them.”

That earns him a soft laugh.  “I would advise against it.  I’m not sure how many of them are demons.”

Castiel files that information away, and does his best to assist Alfie with making the meal.  They make tortillas and a mixture of beef and beans that simmers in a pot over the stove.  He notices that even though there is a large bag of salt, Alfie doesn’t add any to the meal, instead using other colorful spices and dried peppers.  

While Alfie’s back is turned, Castiel sneaks several handfuls of salt into his pockets.  He doubts the opportunity to use it will arise, but he’d prefer to be prepared.

Afterwards, Alfie warms more water in a separate pot and gives Castiel a tiny sliver of soap and a cloth.  Gratefully, Castiel washes as much of himself as he can without removing his clothing.  He keeps an eye on the door, listening for signs of any of the men coming back.

The hot water feels amazing, and it lifts his spirits to wash away as much of the lingering sulfur on his skin as he can.  But if he lives through this, he swears he’s going to soak for a week in a tub of soap and water.  And he’ll probably never eat eggs ever again.

When he’s finished, he and Alfie put the food on the table.  He whispers a confession to Alfie that he hopes they choke on it, smiling when the boy stifles a laugh.  Then he retreats to the far corner of the cabin as Alfie calls the others in for dinner.

There are three of them, and Alistair comes in a few minutes later.  That means two men are still out in the surrounding hills, probably looking for Joaquín.

Castiel crouches down on his heels, arms wrapped around his knees.  He tries to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

Outside, it’s dark and the wind has come up.  As Alistair slams the door shut behind himself, a blast of icy air gusts through the hearth, sending cinders and ash swirling.  The cold air cuts through everyone in the room, and Castiel watches closely to see who doesn’t seem to be affected, trying to suss out which men are just men, and which are possessed.

After supper, the men begin drinking, and Castiel’s wariness sharpens.  Sober, they’re dangerous.  Drunk, they could be animals.

Alfie seems to sense his apprehension.  He casts surreptitious glances at Castiel, always looking away quickly to keep from getting caught.  When he’s offered the bottle of tequila, he appears to drink, but Castiel’s sharp eyes see that it still seems as full as when it was handed to him.

The men go through two bottles, and the fire is rebuilt when it burns low.  They’re loud, laughing at jokes told in English and Spanish.  Eventually the laughter turns boastful, then belligerent as the Apache unsheathes his knife and makes some guttural challenge to Black Eyes.

The table gets shoved against the wall, and many knives are brought out.  Castiel can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed when the challenge doesn’t turn out to be a knife fight.  Instead the men take turns throwing their knives at the far wall.  It’s soon apparent that Black Eyes and the Apache, although roaring drunk, are fairly evenly matched.

As the air is filled with the sharp _thwang_ of steel being thrown and the _thunk_ as the tips of blades embed themselves in the log wall, Alfie slowly moves toward Castiel.

“Be careful that you don’t say anything to anger them,” he warns under his breath.  He sounds completely sober.  “They’re very dangerous when they’re drunk.”

Castiel tries not to roll his eyes.  “You gave them all that tequila.”

“And I plan to give them more.  If they drink until they pass out, you will be safer.”

“Can demons get drunk?”

Alfie’s teeth flash briefly.  “With enough tequila, yes.”  Then he turns serious.  “You are the prize for whoever wins the contest.”

Castiel’s skin goes cold, and his fingers trace the edge of the knife inside his boot.  He knows it won’t work on Black Eyes, and he doesn’t know if the Apache is possessed or not.  But they can’t hurt him if he’s dead.

“Why do you care what happens to me?” he asks.

Alfie crouches low a couple feet away.  If any of the others glance their way, it will look like he’d simply found an out of the way place from which to watch the contest.  He speaks carefully, his lips barely moving.  The muscles in his face tighten as he appears to watch his compadres.

“Because no one cared for me,” Alfie whispers brokenly.  “And I want to go home.”

He has no idea where Alfie’s home might be, but he hopes that if there is rescue coming he can help this boy find it again.  Even if it’s just at Cesar and Jesse’s ranch, where he can be safe from demons for as long as he wants to stay.

He’s so young, seventeen or eighteen years old at most, but with so many more years etched into the lines of his face.  He’d seen and probably done things that will remain with him for the rest of his life.  And he simply wants out.

But they both know there’s only one man who ever rode away from Alistair and lived to tell of it.

He wants to reach out and touch Alfie.  To offer some comfort.  But to do so will risk both of their lives.  So he offers the only comfort he can.  “I understand.  And I’ll take you with me when I leave.”

Alfie turns his head enough to look at Castiel.  “Who are you?”

Castiel smiles slightly.  “I’m a Pinkerton agent.  And I’m here to kill Alistair.”

* * *

It’s late.  Black Eyes and the Apache are beginning to grow weary of their game.

Alistair pays them very little attention.  He sits back in his chair with his hands folded over his belly, and his legs stretched out in front of him.  His eyes rest on Castiel, and his lips twist in a knowing smile that makes Castiel’s skin crawl.  Every once in a while his gaze will drift to the door as if he’s expecting something, but it always comes back to Castiel.

Alfie continues to provide the men with a constant supply of tequila.  Black Eyes and the Apache both partake heavily, and their speech becomes slurred as they hurl taunts and curses at one another.  

Castiel is fairly certain that both of them are possessed, but it’s confirmed when the Apache shoves Alfie away in annoyance, knocking the bottle the floor, which immediately brings a howl of complaint from Black Eyes.  He whirls on the Apache, slashing at him with his knife.  

The blade cuts through the Apache’s face, leaving a bone deep gash that reveals his molars in a macabre grin.  The Apache blinks, and his eyes are black voids.  He snarls in a language Castiel doesn’t recognize, and he lunges at Black Eyes.

Before he can make contact he’s flying across the room, pinned to the wall.  He continues to snarl and hiss, but Black Eyes appears to be stronger and holds him in place with a hand outstretched in the Apache’s direction.  “The game is over, compadre,” Black Eyes hisses, making _compadre_ sound like the lowest insult.

“I win!” Black Eyes declares.  A knife embedded in the wall they were using as target practice wriggles free of the wood and then flies across the room, embedding itself in the Apache’s throat.

Such an injury would be a killing blow to a human, but the Apache only grabs for the hilt and struggles to free himself.  His inhumanly black eyes burn with hatred as he slurs what Castiel assumes are insults at Black Eyes.  Blood pours down his chest and flecks over his lips, but he doesn’t weaken.

Black Eyes ignores him, turning and looking right at Castiel where he takes refuge in the shadows.

“I’m going to burn off that tattoo and wear your pretty skin,” Black Eyes announces loudly as he strides across the small space.  

He grabs Castiel’s hair, and jerks him upright, while his other hand reaches for the collar of Castiel’s shirt.  He rips it open, and reaches for Castiel’s chest, but before his fingers make contact with Castiel’s skin, a sharp order stops him.

“No.”

Black Eyes freezes, and fear flashes over his expression.

Alistair hasn’t moved from his relaxed pose, and when he speaks again, his voice is calm and almost bored.  “I have other plans for him.”

Rage overcomes the fear and Black Eyes spins around to face Alistair.  He doesn’t release his grip on Castiel’s hair, and he nearly drags him across the floor.  “I found him, he’s mine.”

Alistair lifts one thin eyebrow, unimpressed.  “Dear Sancho found him.”

Black Eyes snears at Sancho, who is watching the scene unfold with bleary eyes.  “He would not know what to do with his prize.”

Dark chuckles fill the room.  Even the Apache gurgles a laugh.  Sancho is flushed from alcohol, and he grins dopily.  “I will figure it out!”

The smile Alistair gives him is patronizing.  “I’m sure you would try, my boy.”  His smile fades and he returns his attention to Black Eyes.  “But now is not the time to fight over who gets to play with our prize, when two more men are missing.”

Almost immediately the men seem to sober up, even Sancho.  Black Eyes releases whatever hold he has on the Apache, who yanks the blade from his throat and drops to his feet.

“What are you talking about?” Black Eyes grumbles.  He casts a glance down at Castiel, as if thinking he might still claim his prize.

“Marquez and Billy have been gone too long,” Alistair says.  “They should have been back hours ago.”

“They’re probably in the shed with the horses.” Black Eyes shows little concern, and his eyes take on a feral gleam as he continues to stare down at Castiel.

“You think Billy would pass up on such fresh blood?” Alistair asks cooly, flicking his fingers in Castiel’s direction.

Billy must be another demon.  That means that Dean is facing at least four, including Alistair, plus Sancho, and possibly Marquez, wherever he is.  

Castiel glances at Alfie, wondering what side he’ll fight on.

“You will ride out and check the lookouts,” Alistair says, when Black Eyes offers no counter argument.

It’s clear by his expression that Black Eyes wants to argue, but he checks his anger.  Castiel releases the breath he’d been holding, disappointed.  He doesn’t know if demons can kill each other, but by the way the other demons seem to fear Alistair, he guesses that he may have the power to do so.  It would have been nice to have the number of demons reduced.

Black Eyes isn’t that much of a fool.  He doesn’t challenge Alistair further.  He releases Castiel with a shove that makes him land hard on his shoulder.  “Of course I’ll ride out and find them,” he says almost jovially, in a too obvious attempt to break the tension filling the cabin.  “They are probably warming themselves by a fire at this very moment.”

He seizes his hat from the table and takes a thick serape off the pile of blankets.  “I will saddle my horse,” he tells Alistair, then leaves the cabin.

Castiel is silently grateful, even though he knows that Black Eyes’ absence does nothing to lessen the danger he’s in.  

Alistair speaks to the others.  “Get your rifles and go keep watch outside.”

Sancho makes a face, but gets up to obey the order.  The Apache wipes his arm across the cut on his face, smearing blood on his sleeve, but his cheek is healed when he lowers it.  He grabs Alfie by the collar as he strides past him, dragging him outside even though Alfie hadn’t shown any signs of disobeying the order.  Alfie looks back once, casting a worried glance in Castiel’s direction.

Now that he’s alone with Alistair, Castiel almost wishes he’d been left alone with Black Eyes instead.  The idea of horrifying pain and torture seems like a welcome alternative to whatever Alistair might have in store for him.

Alistair regards him with icy eyes, and the ever present hint of a smile that makes Castiel’s heart hammer with primal fear.  The silence stretches between them, and Castiel risks sitting up, even though his instincts scream for him to hold still, to not draw the predator’s attention.

“He’ll be here soon,” Alistair says conversationally.  

“Who?”

Alistair bares his teeth in what might be a smile if there was any kind of life in his eyes.  “Don’t play stupid.  It’s unbecoming.”  He shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over his knee and folding his hands atop them.  “Come here.”

Whether Castiel planned to resist or not, he’ll never know.  Something unseen wraps around him, and pulls him across the floor, until he’s kneeling at Alistair’s feet.  The demon doesn’t move other than to reach out and pet his fingers through Castiel’s hair.  “I’m so torn,” he murmurs.  “Do I wait for Dean to return to me, and use you to retrain him?  Or do I burn away that silly ink in your skin, and greet him with your face?”

Castiel’s insides turn to ice.  Whatever is happening on his face makes Alistair chuckle, and it almost sounds human.

“I could do both,” he continues thoughtfully.  “Maybe I’ll let him decide.  I do so love giving him choices, and seeing what he’ll do.”

He leans forward, and cups Castiel’s chin.  “I didn’t force him to do everything, you know.  Sometimes I just nudged him in a direction, and then sat back and watched him work.”  He sighs wistfully.  “Such talent in that boy.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Castiel whispers.

Alistair shrugs and sits back, releasing Castiel with his fingers, if not with his power.  “He was well on his way to becoming an artist.  It is hard for a teacher not to boast about his star pupil.”

Castiel thinks of young Sancho.  Not possessed, but still cruel and vicious, and eager to please the demons. 

And then he thinks of how gentle Dean can be.  The way Dean’s fingers trembled against his skin.  How tenderly he kissed, how careful he was.  Even at his most passionate, when Castiel knew that he’d feel the imprint of Dean’s fingers long after his touch was gone, Dean had never hurt Castiel.  

Whatever Alistair thinks he was molding Dean into, Castiel knows that deep down to his very core, Dean is kind and good.  And even if Alistair nearly smothered that part of Dean, the spark of his righteous soul flared back to life once he’d gained his freedom.

“You don’t believe me,” Alistair guesses.  His shoulders lift in a shrug.  “You don’t need to, right now.” He smiles again.  “We could speak of your brother instead, if you’d like.”

Rage makes Castiel reckless.  “Dean is going to kill you,” he hisses.  “And I’m going to be there to watch.”

“Not even Sammy Winchester has the power to kill me,” Alistair replies.  “Although I’ve heard he’s gotten off the sauce.  Shame, really.  The boy has his own potential.  Maybe when I’ve punished Dean sufficiently for leaving me, we’ll go find his brother and bring him into the fold.  Family belongs together, after all.”

Castiel blanches.  If Alistair possesses Dean again, will he be able to get past the ranch’s wards?  Would Sam recognize the demon inside his brother’s skin?  Even if he does, can he fight back without the Colt?

His racing thoughts are interrupted when the cabin door opens, revealing the pale light of pre-dawn.  Black Eyes stomps inside, his expression thunderous.

“Did you find Billy and Marquez?” Alistair asks casually, as if the answer doesn’t really matter to him.

“There’s no sign of either of them.  They never made it to the lookout point.”

Alistair widens his eyes comically.  “My oh my. What could have happened to them?”

Black Eyes doesn’t appreciate Alistair’s humor, but he’s not stupid enough to show it.  Instead he turns a venomous glare on Castiel.  “All I know is that this started when we brought him here.  We were followed, and they’re picking us off one by one.  It’s all because of him, and they want him back.”

“What do you think we should do about that?” Alistair asks, still completely unconcerned.

The slow smile that spreads across Black Eye’s face promises nothing but suffering.  “If they want him so badly, let them come get him.  On our terms.”

Alistair looks pleased.  A force shoves Castiel across the floor, leaving him in a heap at Black Eyes’ feet.  “I agree, wholeheartedly.”

Castiel is dragged from the cabin.  It’s barely dawn, and the sky is a cold, misty gray, blanketing the tiny valley in layers of ominous clouds.  A light snow floats down around them.

“Get a rope,” Black Eyes shouts as they cross the clearing in front of the cabin.

Knowing that it’s useless, Castiel still fights as Black Eyes drags him through the mud.  The demon could easily kill him, but Castiel refuses to go down without a fight.  Not anymore.  If he’s going to be tortured to bring Dean out of hiding, he might as well make it as difficult as possible for the demon.

From the corner of his eye, Castiel sees the Apache approach them with a long rope. 

“Tie him.” Black Eyes points at a makeshift hitching post near the shed.  “And get him out of that coat.”

No matter how hard he struggles, he’s no match for two demons, and he’s quickly stripped down to his shirt.  He winces as his wrists are bound to the post too tightly.  It won’t be long until he begins to lose feeling in his fingers.

Black Eyes presses up against him, breathing hot and sour against his neck.  “Don’t worry, you’ll still be fuckable after we’re done marking you up.”  His hand gropes Castiel’s backside roughly.

Castiel tries kicking back at him, but Black Eyes evades the blows.  But he’s distracted enough by that, that he isn’t able to avoid it when Castiel flings his head back.  There’s a sickening crunch as Castiel’s head connects with his nose, and wet warmth splashes on the back of Castiel’s neck.

The demon grabs Castiel’s hair, jerking his head back so hard, that he thinks his neck might snap.  “Puto!” he spits out, splattering more blood over Castiel’s cheek.  “I will make sure you live to suffer for a very long time.”

“Burn in hell, you son of a bitch,” Castiel grits out.

With a growl, Black Eyes shoves his head forward, knocking his forehead against the post.  While Castiel blinks away the black spots in his vision, the demon seizes the back of his shirt and separates the cloth with a knife.  The cold, deadly blade catches Castiel’s skin, but he barely feels the sting underneath the pain ringing in his skull.

“No! Don’t do this!”  

It’s Alfie.  Castiel wants to tell him to be quiet, and to watch out for himself, but his lips don’t seem to be able to cooperate.

“He must mean a great deal to them!” Alfie says urgently.  “Perhaps we can ransom him!”

Alistair has been standing nearby, watching the proceedings with interest.  He doesn’t look away from Castiel as he lifts his hand and flicks his fingers.  “That’s enough of that.”

Alfie’s head twists with the motion of Alistair’s hand, and Castiel hears the crack as his neck is turned past its natural limits.  With horror, Castiel watches the boy’s body slump to the ground.

“NO!”

“That was a mercy, compared to what we’re going to do to you,” Black Eyes says with a dark laugh.  “Now, let us see what it takes to get your friend to come out of hiding.”

Castiel stares at Alfie’s still body.  In the edges of his vision he sees Black Eyes uncoiling a long, lethal bull whip.  He swallows convulsively, and keeps his eyes on the boy who didn’t deserve to be up here on the mountain with these cruel men.  These _monsters._

 _I’m sorry_ , he thinks.  _I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you._

His eyes drift to Alistair, who is still watching him with evil delight.  He tries to convey all of his hatred in his stare.  

He won’t scream.  He won’t cry out.  By God, he will not break.

He hears it the instant before he feels it--that eerie sighing sound that seems to sting the air before it stings the flesh.  He reels with the blow.  It feels as if his back is torn open.

Breathing is a battle as his body is paralyzed by the pain.  The second lash comes before he’s recovered.  A third crack cuts through the piercing cold wind, followed by the lick of searing pain across his shoulders.  Then a fourth strike cracks through the air like a rifle shot.

_Like a rifle shot._

Slowly, recognition seeps into his numbed brain.  He _had_ heard a shot, and there had been no fourth strike.

More loud cracks fill the air.  Gunfire.

There are wild shouts, the thunderous pounding of an approaching horse.

Fighting back dizziness and pain from the welts on his back, Castiel lifts his foot.  It’s awkward with his tingling fingers, but he’s able to force them to obey his commands and pull the knife out of his boot just enough to bare part of the blade.  While everyone is distracted, he saws through the bindings.

Black Eyes is shouting orders.  The Apache flees across the yard to the shed and slips inside.  The tip of his rifle protruding from the door.

More gunshots fill the air among the staccato beat of a horse’s hooves on hard packed earth.  A single rider races toward the encampment.

Black Eyes and Sancho return the gunfire, aiming several shots at the rider, before Alistair’s voice cuts across the noise.

“Hold your fire.  It’s Billy.”

The horse is nearly frantic, and its sides heave as if Billy had forced it into a desperate run down the hillside.  The Apache runs out into the yard and makes a grab for the reins to stop the wild-eyed animal.

As Black Eyes also approaches the horse, he shouts “Dammit Billy!  What the hell is going on?  Where have you been and where is Marquez?”  A puzzled frown creases his features as he steps closer.

Castiel sees the unusual slump of Billy's shoulders as he sits motionless in the saddle, and guesses the truth.  Billy's hat had been jarred loose by the ride and he makes no move to salvage it.  His expression is blank, his features slack.

Black Eyes snarls and reaches up to grab the front of Billy's coat.  The dead outlaw wobbles in the saddle, like a puppet cut loose from its strings.  Then his coat gapes open, revealing the blood stained front of his shirt.  He sags and his body slips sideways out of the saddle, landing in the mud at Black Eyes feet.

“Madre de Dios!” Sancho exclaims.  “We killed Billy!”

“Silencio!” Black Eyes snarls.  “We didn’t kill him, he was already dead.” 

Sancho looks at his dead companion with wide, confused eyes.  "But how?"

"An exorcism," Black Eyes hisses angrily.

The thunder of another approaching horse distracts them, and Castiel finishes freeing himself.  Blood rushes back to his fingers, making them sting as feeling returns, and he fumbles to hold the knife in clumsy fingers, although he knows it will be useless against these enemies.

The horse that rides down into the valley carries two riders.  A quick glance at the stiff postures reveals that they’re as dead as Billy.  Their throats are both cut.  Castiel assumes they’re the missing Joaquín and Marquez.

Alistair’s delighted laughter echoes across the valley.  “I know you’re out there, Dean!” he calls into the gray gloom.  “Come out and greet me properly!  I’ve missed you so!”

“Cas! Get out of there!”

Castiel hears his name and the familiar voice, but he hardly believes it.  But as he yells again, Castiel realizes it’s true.

_Dean._


	28. Chapter 28

Dean waits, knowing that as long as Cas is in the cabin with the Comancheros, attempting to get him out will only get him killed.

When they all come outside, he’s still forced to wait.  He has no idea who is possessed, and he can’t hit any of them with the Colt from this distance.

Rage tears through Dean as he watches Cas get dragged from the cabin.  He watches helplessly as he’s tied to a post and stripped to the waist.  When the first lash falls, Dean knows he can’t wait any longer.  If he waits for a better opportunity to attack, Cas will only continue to suffer.

The numbers are against him, even if every man down there is human.  His only chance is to rely on the element of surprise, and then confusion.  He fires several rounds from his rifle to get their attention, and then he sends the horses down into the encampment.

He only has a few precious moments before Alistair figures out what is going on, and then all hell will break loose.

Chaos erupts as Dean rides down from his hiding place, and the Comancheros react just as he knew they would.  They scatter, returning fire as they dive for shelter.  Even demons forget they’re bullet proof if you take them by surprise.  

Dean is caught in a crossfire between the shed and the cabin, and swears violently as a bullet tears into his right thigh.  He reins Baby hard and half slides, half falls to the ground.  Pain lashes through his thigh as he runs for cover, but he does not allow it to slow him down.

He runs for cover at the same time he yells at Cas.  He catches a glimpse of Cas throwing a handful of something at one of the Comancheros--salt by the way he howls and cringes away from Cas--and then breaking into a run, but doesn’t see where Cas goes.  Dean heads for the side of the shed.

“Damn fool better not get himself killed,” Dean mutters.  Not now.  Not after surviving long enough for Dean to find him.

He leans against the outside wall of the shed.  He’s vaguely aware that warm blood is seeping down his leg but ignores it, concentrating on the man he knows is inside the shed.

When he’d first found the hideout there were seven men, including Alistair.  Now there were only four.  He’d be seriously outnumbered even if none of them were possessed.  He has no idea where Alistair is, but he’d seen an Apache near the shed.

There’s a lull in the gunfire.  He takes advantage of it and moves along the side of the shed.  It’s a three sided structure built to shelter the horses in summer.  There are slight gaps in the walls where light filters through, but on this side, firewood is stacked high, providing protection.  He approaches the back corner, trying to guess the Apache’s next move.  A man-shaped shadow on the ground makes him look up.

A shot is fired from the direction of the roof.  Dean hits the ground and rolls to the side as another bullet digs into the ground where he’d been standing.  He lies on his back and raises the Colt, firing continuously into the roof of the shed.

When the chambers are empty, there’s complete silence.  Then there’s a dull thud as the Apache collapses on the roof, rolls off the back of the shed, and lands on the ground only a few feet from where Dean lies in the dirt.

One down, three to go.

Dean staggers to his feet, and slips deeper inside the shed while he reloads.  He pokes his head around the edge of the shed, and his eyes immediately catch on a body on the ground.  His heart jumps into his throat for the split second it takes him to realize it’s not Cas.  It’s a young man, greasy hair a tangled net over his face, and a long red slash across his throat and blood pooling under his shoulders.

A presence at his side makes him whirl, but he stays his gun when he hears an achingly welcome voice.  

“Dean!”

“Cas,” Dean sighs.  He wants to grab him, throw him over Baby’s saddle, and ride out of this place.  But that isn’t possible yet.

He tries not to focus too hard on the bruises and swelling on Cas’ face.  There will be time for that later if they survive.  Tilting his head at the corpse, he asks “your work?”

Cas nods, holding up a bloodied blade.  “The rest are demons.”

“I got one of them with the Colt,” Dean says.

“That’s good--”

They both duck instinctively when a bullet bites out a chunk of wood nearby.  Dean pulls Sam’s knife from its sheath and presses it into Cas’ hand.  “Take this,” he hisses.  “Keep your head down.”

Cas’ fingers brush over his when he takes the horn handle.  His eyes linger on Dean’s face for a long moment, before he turns and starts moving away.

Dean’s hand shoots out and catches Cas’ shoulder.  When Cas turns back, Dean fumbles at his shirt.  He holds out the broken rosary.  Its warding properties still work, and he’d used it to get the jump on the other demons he’d killed earlier. “This too.  Be careful.”

Blue eyes drill into him.  Dean sees gratitude, and so many other things he doesn’t have time to think about right now.  Cas takes the rosary and wraps it around his fist.

“I’m going after Black Eyes,” Cas says, voice low and dangerous.

“Who?”

“The bastard with the whip.”  And then he’s gone, slipping around the other side of the shed.  

It’s hell letting him go, but Dean has plenty of practice letting his loved ones walk into danger.

The realization that Cas is one of them couldn’t come at a worse time.  Another bullet hits the ground nearby, and he ducks back into cover.  

Two down, two to go.  And Cas is going to take care of one of them, so that just leaves Dean with Alistair.  

He rubs his thumb over the Colt’s hammer.  

He limps around the other side of the shed.  The gunfire has stopped, and after a few moments of silence, Dean slips out of cover and heads for the cabin.  Halfway across the yard, a voice freezes him in his tracks.

“Dean.”

The air gets stuck in Dean’s lungs.  He closes his eyes, and for the first time in many many years, he prays.  There’s probably no one listening, but fear drives one to desperate measures.  

After a few heartbeats, he forces the air out of his lungs, and they start working on their own again.  And he takes his chance.

Spinning around, he raises the Colt, hammer already pulled back--

The Colt is wrenched out of Dean’s grasp.  He cries out a wordless denial as it flies across the yard to land in Alistair’s palm.  And then he cries out again when Alistair immediately points the barrel at him, and pulls the trigger.  Lead tears into his side, and knocks him onto his back in the mud.

Alistair clicks his tongue with disapproval as he approaches Dean with unhurried steps.  “You didn’t really think that would work, did you?”

“Hope springs eternal,” Dean grunts.  He looks up into Alistair’s icy gray eyes, and his skin goes cold all over.  The man Alistair is wearing is unfamiliar, but he’d recognize the demon in any skin.  And the nasally lisp as he speaks will echo in his ears for the rest of his life, no matter how short that may be.  “New meat suit?”

Alistair looks down at himself and smoothes a palm over the front of his shirt.  “A barber from Texas.  Not as delightful a suit as you were, my boy, but it’s serviceable.  I can’t wait to slip into something more...” his lips twist in a mockery of a smile, and he pins Dean with his stare again.  “Comfortable.”

Only pure, bullheaded contrariness keeps Dean from shrinking back in the mud.  He can’t.   _He can’t._   But his hands are empty of any kind of useful weapon to take himself out of Alistair’s reach forever.  

His mind races, looking for any way to escape the hell that’s waiting for him.  “I’d make a shitty suit with all these holes in me.”

Something unseen lifts Dean from the mud, making him hiss as his injuries are aggravated by the movement.  He’s dragged across the yard, and then his weight is hanging by the hand wrapped around his throat.  

Alistair smirks up at him, and between one blink and the next, his eyes are solid white and more terrifying than any black eyed demon Dean has ever encountered.  “I’ll patch them up,” Alistair promises softly.  He lifts the Colt, pressing the barrel against Dean’s chest, over his heart where the anti-possession tattoo protects him.  “Just as soon as I remove this ink stain.”

Black spots swim in the corner of Dean’s vision, and all he can see is Alistair’s smile as it widens in triumph.  A tingle starts on the skin over his heart, increasing to an uncomfortable burn.

And then it cuts off, and Alistair’s whole body convulses.  His eyes widen in surprise, pupils and irises blinking back into existence.  

The tip of a knife protrudes from his throat.  Yellow light flickers under the skin around it.

Dean grabs Alistair’s hand, the one holding the Colt, and shoves the barrel up under the demon’s chin.  He jams his thumb down over the trigger.

The thundering crack of gunfire makes his ears ring.

And then he’s falling to the ground.  He coughs, and rubs up at his throat as he looks up at Alistair.

The yellow light flashes brighter.  So bright that Dean can see the outline of bones under the layers of Alistair’s clothing, skin, and flesh.  His jaw drops open, and the sickly light spills from between his lips.  His eyes glow with it.  It shines from the hole in his skull where the bullet had ripped through.

His body convulses again.  And then, like a puppet with cut strings, he collapses into the mud before Dean.

Cas stands over the body, Sam’s bloodied knife clutched in his hand, wide eyes fixed on the fresh corpse at his feet.

Strength seeps out of Castiel, and his knees feel like they’re going to give out.  Nausea churns in his stomach, and his back throbs.  But it all seems distant, happening somewhere else, to someone else.  

“Cas, are you all right?”

Dean’s voice brings reality rushing back, a flash flood of emotion and sensation.  He gasps, and hurries to Dean, stepping over the dead man between them and falling to his knees at Dean’s side.  “You’re hurt!”

Dean gives a short, ironic laugh.  “Yeah, I guess the son-of-a-bitch was quicker than I thought.  The idea was to shoot him first.”

Castiel frowns.  “How can you make jokes at a time like this?”

“You can either listen to my jokes or my swearing, which is it gonna be?”  Dean smiles up at him, even though it’s contorted from pain.  He reaches up and touches Castiel’s face.  “I asked if you’re all right.”

Tears burn at Castiel’s eyes as the stress of the last several days catches up with him, but he blinks them back.  It’s ridiculous for Dean to be asking, with a bullet wound in his side, but he can’t find the words to tell him so.  He nods, and holds onto Dean a little more carefully.

“You’re one helluva Pinkerton agent.” Dean winces and clutches at Castiel’s arm.

“You’re one helluva fool,” Castiel shoots back at him, softening the insult with a smile.  “And if we don’t get you bandaged, you’re going to be one helluva dead fool.  You’re bleeding all over the place.”

“What do you suggest?” Dean asks, voice thin with pain.

“The cabin,” Castiel says without hesitation.  “I can find something in there to use as a bandage.”  He leans down enough to wrap Dean’s arm over his shoulders, and then starts to gingerly lift him from the ground.

Dean huffs with pain as they move.  “Is… it safe?” he asks haltingly.  “What about… Black Eyes?”

“He’s dead,” Castiel assures as he takes Dean’s weight against himself.  He looks into Dean’s eyes, narrowed with pain, and now only inches away, and tries to make light of the situation.  “They all are, thanks to you.  I guess it was a good idea to bring you along on this hunt.  I knew you’d come in handy.”

Dean’s lips twitch.  “Cas…”

“What is it, Dean?”

“Can you shut up long enough to get me inside?  I’m bleeding all over the place.”

“Don’t push it, Winchester.  I just might decide to put another bullet hole in you.”

Dean chuckles softly at the empty threat, his breath warm against Castiel’s cheek as he leans on him heavily and they slowly walk toward the cabin.  “I’ll be more careful about what I say from now on.  I think I can only handle two bullet holes in one day.”

Castiel’s head comes up in alarm as they step through the doorway.  “Two?”

He helps Dean to the pile of blankets in the corner, and when Dean collapses on it, he sees the patch of blood at his thigh.  Fear chills his skin.  “Dammit, Dean,” he curses softly.  “You weren’t supposed to get yourself killed over me.”

Dean grunts as Castiel carefully helps him into a more comfortable position on the makeshift bed.  His breathing comes in short, hard gasps, and a sheen breaks out across his skin from the effort of getting this far.  “It seemed--” he smiles up at Castiel, green eyes glinting wickedly, “--like… the thing to do… at the time.”

Fingers trembling, Castiel gently pulls the tails of Dean’s shirt from his pants.  “A helluva lot of good getting yourself killed will do either of us.”

“Ah Cas, the way you talk, somebody could almost think you care what happens to me.”

Castiel doesn’t look up as he pushes up Dean’s shirt.  “I suppose that _would_ be a mistake,” he quips.

“Yeah, a big one.  I’m no good at feelings, Cas.”

The serious tone brings Castiel’s head up.  Their eyes meet, and he sees a warning in Dean’s eyes.  Ignoring the ache in his chest, he drops his gaze to the wound in Dean’s side.

“I’ll try to remember that,” he says stiffly.  He swallows hard, and pulls his hands back just short of touching Dean’s skin.

“I don’t recall you having any trouble touching me the last time we were together.”

“I don’t remember,” Castiel lies, simply because it’s the easiest way to mask the pain caused by Dean’s warning.

Dean curses himself for opening his damn mouth and shoving his foot in it.  He should apologize.  Explain himself better.  But because he really _isn’t_ any good at feelings, he tries another tactic, hoping actions will speak louder than words.

“Then let me refresh your memory,” he says softly as his hand slips behind Cas’ head and draws him down.  In spite of the pain, his mouth hungrily seeks Cas’ lips.

Cas’ response is immediate, equally hungry.  His lips part, and Dean takes advantage, slipping his tongue between them and seeking the heat inside.  The intimate contact rouses a deep and painful knot of longing deep inside Dean , and he presses for more.  Then Cas gently pushes him back onto the blankets, leaving the sweet, hot, masculine taste of him lingering on Dean’s tongue as he draws away.  His blue eyes are dark with arousal when their gazes meet again.

“I think you remember,” Dean says softly.

Ignoring the truth of his words, Castiel rises to his feet and begins searching for anything he can use for medical supplies.  “I have to get you bandaged.  And that bullet needs to come out.”

“It’s already out.”

He turns around, and looks at Dean in question.

Dean grimaces and brushes trembling fingers near the wound.  “It passed clean through, but I think I’ve got some broken ribs.”

Castiel fights against his rising alarm.  A bullet hole is bad enough.  Broken ribs add many more complications.  “How can you tell?”

He gets a wink, which Castiel finds completely maddening coming from a man in Dean’s condition.

“I’ve had a few in my time.  Although none from a bullet before.”

Sarcasm is Castiel’s only defense against the fear.  “A barroom brawl, I’m assuming?”

Dean’s smirk doesn’t disguise his pain.  “A few times.  And a horse kicked me once.  I didn’t see that one coming.”

“I’ll just bet you didn’t.”

Dean grins at him in that aggravating way of his, and Castiel turns away so his expression hides just how not funny he finds this whole situation.  He finds several clean shirts, their size suggesting they might have belonged to Sancho or Alfie.  By the cleanliness, he knows they were Alfie’s, and his fist tightens briefly in the cloth before he sets them aside to be used for bandages.  

He puts water on to boil, then tries to make Dean as comfortable as possible.  When the water is ready, he cleans the double wound, at his side and his back.  “You’re lucky that bullet passed through.”

Dean grunts in agreement as Castiel helps him sit up.

After putting thick, clean pads of cloth over the wounds, Castiel binds them.  He continues winding wide strips of fabric around Dean, from his waist, to just under his arms to protect his broken ribs from too much movement.

“Yeah, I didn’t fancy trying to dig it out myself,” Dean says as he leans against Castiel’s shoulder.

“That’s something I could have done,” Castiel reminds him.

Dean brushes his fingers against Castiel’s lips.  “I suppose you could do just about anything you set your mind to.”

The gentle touch confuses Castiel.  He pulls away, refusing to spend time agonizing over the contrast between Dean’s words and his actions.  There are much more pressing concerns at the moment.

“Of all things,” he mutters half in disgust, half in disbelief. “Digging a bullet out of yourself.”

“It’s been known to happen on occasion.”

Castiel’s skin goes cold at the thought.  “You’ve actually removed a bullet yourself?”

“You do what you have to, Cas.”  His green eyes are solemn.

Castiel frowns as he gently settles Dean back on the blankets.  He picks up the now clean knife that he’d used on Sancho, and starts to cut Dean’s pant leg.  Dean’s hand stops him.

“Just get the bleeding stopped and put a bandage on it.”

“That bullet has to come out.”

Dean shakes his head adamantly.  “It’s too deep, Cas.  It’ll take too much time that we don’t have.  I’m better off if we leave it in.”

“And take the chance of blood poisoning?  Don’t be ridiculous.”  When he tries again to cut the cloth, Dean’s fingers close over his wrist with a surprisingly strong grip for someone who had lost so much blood.

“We don’t have time,” Dean repeats with less patience.

“What are you talking about?” Castiel argues.  “We’re safe here.  We’ll take the time.  Then when you’re better--”

“No Cas, you don’t understand.  _We don’t have time._ ” Dean’s eyes close and he seems to be trying to gather strength after his outburst.  “The weather is going to close in on us.  If we get stuck here, we’ll die here.  This place ain’t supplied for being snowed in all season.  Demons don’t need to eat, and they don’t give two shits about the survival of the humans staying with them.”

“But…” Even as he starts to protest, he thinks of the small stores of food he’d seen when helping Alfie cook.  And the gaping cracks in the walls that won’t seal in any warmth.  It’s true, this place will not protect them from a heavy winter storm.

“We can’t stay here,” Dean says.  “We have to get out now.”

“You’ll bleed to death if you try to ride a horse,” Castiel says softly.

“I’d rather bleed to death atop a horse than freeze to death here.”

Those crystal green eyes burn into Castiel.  Even wounded as badly as he is, Dean is very formidable.  The weakness in his voice as he speaks is deceptive.  “We’ve got to leave before the next storm hits, or we’ll be stuck here.”

Castiel nods, agreeing because he’s put his life in Dean’s hands before and he hasn’t failed him.  And deep down, he knows Dean is right.  He’d felt the change in the weather through the bite of the wind.  This is high country, not unlike places he knows in Colorado.  Only fools allow themselves to be caught in unfamiliar territory when the weather turns foul.  And it will be brutal up here, even in this sheltered valley.

But how foolish is it to leave with Dean in his present condition?  With that bullet in his leg, it will only get worse.  The question is whether they can make it down without killing him anyway.

Wordlessly, he bandages Dean’s leg while he considers the dangers.  He knots the tie off above the wound to create a tourniquet, and trims off the longest end with his knife before tucking the weapon into his boot.

“Since when have you started keeping knives in your boots?” Dean asks with a smile.

Castiel also smiles in spite of their desperate situation.  “Very recently.  And thankfully they never bothered to search me for it.”  His smile fades slightly, and he looks away.  “Although I guess it would have done very little against Black Eyes.”

The reminder of the demon that had whipped Cas wipes away Dean’s humor.  “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.  I had to wait until they were distracted.”

“I know.  It’s all right.”

Dean closes his fingers around Cas’ hand, stopping him when he moves to stand.  “No it’s not.  As long as I live, I’ll never forget what it was like seeing him hurt you.”

Cas shakes his head, but he looks up again, eyes soft.  “It’s over.”

_Thank god,_ Dean thinks.  He squeezes Cas’ wrist gently.  “You’d better get something on those marks.”

“I’ll see if I can find something now that you’re bandaged up.”

With Dean finally resting, Castiel searches the cabin.  He finds another clean shirt that is his size, then goes looking for anything else useful that they can take with them when they leave.  He finds several boxes of rifle shells, matches, tins of dried food.  As Dean said, there definitely isn’t enough food to last the winter here.  At most, it’s only a place to rest the horses before heading deeper into Mexico.

He finds a small tin of something that resembles animal fat and applies it carefully to the areas of his back that he can reach.  Then he pulls on the clean shirt he’d found earlier.

His long coat is still outside, and he needs to see to the horses.  He closes the door quietly behind him as he leaves the cabin.  Seeing the bodies that litter the camp stops him.

They’re an eerie sight.  Alistair lies in the center of the yard, with the bodies of the three men Dean had killed slumped on the ground nearby.  He sees the Apache’s feet sticking out from behind the shed, and he knows Sancho and Black Eyes’ bodies are nearby, because he’s the one who left them there.  

Alfie lies still and cold near the post where Castiel had been bound.

His first thought is that he should bury them.  His next, more rational thought is that not only would it be an impossible task with the limited time he has, but that it would be better to burn them to put the spirits of the men whose bodies had been stolen by demons could be properly put to rest.

Except for Alfie.

He kneels down next to Alfie and strokes the honey colored hair back from his forehead.  The boy had died trying to protect him.

Tears burn in Castiel’s eyes.  Alfie was so young, and all he’d wanted was to go home.  And Castiel would have seen that he did.  But now, this is as close as he’ll ever get to home.

Castiel finds a shovel in the shed.  He works until he has blisters on his hands, and he curses himself for forgetting to find gloves.  

When he’s through, the sun is high in the sky.  His back throbs, but he refuses to stop until the task is done.  He drags Alfie’s body to the crudely dug grave and rolls him into it.  When freshly turned soil is mounded over the grave, he kneels down next to it.  Tears slip down his cheeks as he says a prayer for the lost boy.

Then he drags the rest of the bodies into the shed, and stacks the chopped firewood around them.  He finds an oil lamp and empties it over the bodies and the wood, but doesn’t light it just yet.

He goes back inside and continues preparations for the trip, packing food and filling canteens with water.  At some point, Dean had fallen asleep, and Castiel moves quietly to keep from disturbing him.  Exhaustion pulls at him as well.  The last time he’d had a restful night seems like another lifetime ago.

More than once he considers leaving Dean there with plenty of firewood, water, and food, and riding out for help.  But he knows it would be foolhardy.  If he succeeded in finding his way out--and there’s no guarantee that he would--he might never find his way back again.  

Then Dean would be left here to die.  That Castiel will not do.

When he’s prepared as much as he can, he sits down near Dean and allows himself to doze.

“We need to ride.” Dean’s voice is weak, but coherent.

Castiel’s eyes open slowly, and he meets Dean’s dark green gaze.  He nods.  “Everything’s ready.”


	29. Chapter 29

The sky is clear and the weather warm, as if to bely Dean’s warnings about the possibility of more storms.  But Castiel lived in Colorado long enough to recognize the deceptive warmth before a storm, and he doesn’t try to argue for staying any longer.

Castiel knows that Dean will never let on how much pain he’s in.  So as he helps Dean leave the cabin, he learns to judge Dean’s limitations by the silence that draws out between them.  Getting Dean up onto his horse leaves him sweating and gritting his teeth, but Dean remains stoic when Castiel looks up at his face.

They lead two extra horses, packed with extra food, water, furs, blankets, and anything else Castiel thought it best to take with them, including dry firewood.  They have as many spare weapons as he could scavenge from the dead outlaws, including a pearl handled revolver that Alistair was known to carry, as proof they’d found him.

Behind them a column of smoke rises from the shed and the bodies of six notorious Comancheros that Castiel lit before saying one last prayer over Alfie’s grave and mounting his horse.

It’s at least a six day ride back to the ranch.  If bad weather sets in, it will take longer.  And the only shelter they’ll have will be what they can find along the way.

Dean takes the lead, following a trail only he knows.  It is unfamiliar to Castiel, and appears to be an altogether different path than he’d brought in on.

They only ride four hours that first day, and Castiel is grateful they’re forced to stop for the night.  He doesn’t think Dean can go any longer, and he silently wonders how far Dean will be able to go on the next day.  If at all.

The temptation to turn back continues to grow, but he knows Dean won’t allow it.  And he suspects that it would be easier to roll a boulder up a mountain than to change Dean’s mind right now.

They make their first camp amid rocks that shelter them from the wind.  Castiel settles Dean into a bed made from the thick furs, then builds a fire and makes dinner.

Dean dozes, only waking briefly to eat.  He sleeps fitfully.  He’s in pain, and Castiel has nothing to give him to ease it.  Mercifully his skin remains cool, and there’s no fever.

They start their journey again at daybreak.  Dean seems better, but Castiel knows that’s precisely what he wants him to think.  Every hour in the saddle takes its toll, even though he constantly checks Dean’s bandages, and tries to soften the ride by padding his saddle with the furs.

He wants to shorten the hours they ride each day, convinced it will be easier on him.  But Dean pushes on as long as there is even a glimmer of daylight.  As if he burns to get off the mountain.  Castiel fights back his nagging doubts about Dean’s ability to survive the ride down the mountain.  But on the second night, as they sit before the fire, he asks Dean to make a detailed map of the trail that will lead them safely down.

On the third day, a light snow begins to fall.  It continues throughout the day, blanketing everything in crystal white softness that is deceptively beautiful.  But it presents a threat, covering landmarks that Castiel isn’t familiar enough with to find without Dean’s help.

The horses stumble and slip, and Castiel wants to stop just after midday.  At least until the storm passes.  The snow is almost knee deep and the horses are tired.  Dean refuses to stop, but relents enough to slow their pace.

As the day wears on, Castiel worriedly watches Dean.  He slumps forward several times, but always catches himself and straightens in the saddle.

Near dusk, when he would normally have pushed them on at least another hour, Dean makes no objection when Castiel stops.  Instead, Baby continues on ahead slowly, picking her way through a stand of trees.

Castiel slips from the saddle as he watches.  Something is wrong.

“Dean?”

When there’s no response, he runs clumsily through the snow.  When he reaches Baby’s side, Dean doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even stir.

“Oh god, no,” he breathes as panic begins to squeeze at his heart.  He unwraps the thick furs thrown over Dean’s hands and legs.  When his hand brushes Dean’s leg, he feels too much warmth.  

The fever has begun.

Dean doesn’t stir until Castiel’s icy cold fingers grasp at his.  His eyes open, but they’re heavy lidded and recognition is slow coming.  His eyes are oddly glassy, and bloodshot.  When he speaks it’s in a vague, mumble. “Where are we?”

Castiel fights back choking fear.  “We just made camp,” he lies, deciding that there’s no way he’ll let Dean talk him into going further that day.  

Instead of an argument, he only gets a slow nod.

As he helps Dean off his horse, Castiel can feel the heat radiating from him through the thick furs.  He’d prayed it wouldn’t happen, because it’s not something he’s capable of handling by himself.  They have no medicine, only water, heat, and clean bandages.

Dear god, what is he going to do?

First, he sets up camp.  He makes Dean as comfortable as possible, then checks his wounds.

The wounds on Dean’s side are both closed and dry, with no sign of infection.  Castiel has no way of checking the broken ribs, so he simply rebinds them.  

The wound on his leg terrifies Castiel.  The bleeding had stopped after the first day, just as Dean said it would.  The tourniquet had been removed already, replaced with thickly padded bandages.

But now it’s badly swollen and a bluish-purple color.  The skin surrounding the wound is feverish, the heat spreading through Dean’s body.  He doesn’t need to be a doctor to know that it’s blood poisoning.

He says nothing to Dean as he applies hot compresses.  They seem to help, and the wound opens up, letting some of the built up fluid drain.  Then Castiel applies fresh bandages, and tries to make Dean comfortable.

Dean watches him with feverish eyes.  “You and I both know what it means.”

Castiel wants to deny it, but dishonesty won’t do either of them any good right now.  Instead he falls back on stubbornness.  “You’ll make it.”

“Cas--”

“We won’t discuss it.”

“We have to.”

“No.” Apparently he’s going to rely on denial anyway.

Dean reaches out with surprising strength, his fingers clamping around Castiel’s arms.  He shakes him lightly.  “I’ll make you listen, Cas.”

Cas knows that the easiest way to shut him up is to let him have his say, but when his blue eyes come up and meet Dean’s they’re stubborn.  Dean smiles faintly at the all too familiar look.  His fingers relax on Cas’ arms, but he doesn’t let go, needing even that small contact to ease his own fear.

“You may have to go on alone.”  When Cas starts to protest, Dean puts a finger over his lips.  They feel cool.  “It’s blood poisoning, there’s no denying it.  The fever is only the first sign.  It’ll only get worse.  I might even get delirious.  If that happens, I won’t be able to sit a horse, much less get you out of here.”

“We’ll get out together,” Cas says firmly.

“Why are you so mule-headed?” Dean huffs.  “Alistair’s dead and you have what you wanted, it’s over now.”

Castiel almost recoils, because Alistair’s death hasn’t been his end goal in a long time.  But how can he make Dean understand that?  He doesn’t return Castiel’s feelings.  He never has, and he probably can’t.

So he simply says “I promised you would have that pardon.” He looks at Dean for a long moment, wondering why the feverish flush in his cheeks enhances his beauty.  “It won’t do you much good if you’re dead.”

Dean blinks.  “You can be the most stubborn bastard,” he says weakly.

Castiel smiles and gives in to the urge to touch, brushing his fingers across the dusting of freckles on Dean’s cheek.  “You once told me going after Alistair was impossible.”

“You almost got yourself killed doing it.”

“But I found him.”

Dean frowns.  “Meaning?

Castiel cups Dean’s cheek, feeling the heat burning through him.  “It means I’m not leaving you on this mountain.”

Dean gives him a long steady look.  “It may come to that, Cas.”

“No it won’t.”

But in the morning, Dean is worse.

XXX

Dean’s fever is out of control.  His skin is so hot and dry it seems to Castiel that there’s a furnace burning under his skin.  And he’s afraid.  He’s never been so afraid.

The truth he’s been confronting for the last few weeks surfaces again.  He loves Dean.

Regardless of the fact that Dean doesn’t feel the same way about him, Castiel loves him.  And he can’t bear it if Dean dies.

He’s determined to get them both down off the mountain, and refuses to accept any other possibility.  But first he has to get Dean’s fever down.

Dean’s eyes are glassy and unfocused.  He takes hold of Castiel’s wrist as he puts more blankets on him.  His voice is raspy, and low, his breathing becoming labored as his temperature increases, but for the moment he’s coherent.  “You’ve gotta get out of here, Cas.”

If he argues, it will only make things worse.  So Castiel lies.  “We can’t leave right now.”  

Confusion clouds green eyes bright with fever.  Castiel doesn’t give him time to object.

“One of the horses was limping when we stopped last night.”

“Cut him loose and take the others.”

For a man who borders on being completely delirious, Dean is amazingly argumentative.  

“No, we need all the horses,” Castiel says calmly.  “I want to give him a little longer to rest.  Besides, I can’t pack all the provisions on the other horses.”

“Cas!” Dean’s fingers squeeze his wrist painfully.  “You fool… you’ll get yourself killed if you don’t… leave.”

Castiel twists his wrist free, and it doesn’t take much effort because Dean doesn’t have the strength to fight him.  He places a cool wet cloth on Dean’s forehead.  “We’ll go in a little while.  You’re better this morning,” he lies.

Dean tries to push the cloth away, and Castiel just puts it right back in place.  “You and Sam…”

He thinks Sam is with them.  Castiel incorporates it into his lies to keep Dean calm.  “He’s ridden on ahead to mark the trail.”

Dean nods, and the restlessness from the fever recedes.  “He can get… you… out.”

“I know,” Castiel soothes.  “Just rest.”

Soon Dean dozes off again, and Castiel quickly gets to work.  He packs snow inside several skins, then wraps them around Dean’s body.  When he stirs, Castiel forces broth into him.  

Gradually the fever lessens, and Dean’s skin loses that fiery, parched look.  He seems lucid when he wakes, looking around with confusion.  “What time is it?”

Again, Castiel lies.  “It’s early.  We can get started now.”  The thick clouds overhead obscure the fact that first light had been some hours ago.

He unwraps the snow he’d packed around Dean’s body.  The bandages are clean, the one at his side is dry.  He changes the one around Dean’s thigh.

“You can’t keep this up,” Dean says softly.

“I can keep it up longer than you can.  And you’re in no condition to argue with me.  Now c’mon, let’s get going.”

“What if I refuse to get in that saddle?”

He isn’t delirious right now.  Castiel needs him to be clear headed to get him into the saddle.  What he doesn’t need is an argument.  “You’ll only slow things down a little, and probably hurt yourself in the process,” he says with a shrug.  “If I have to drag you onto that horse with a rope, I’ll do it.”  He fixes Dean with a glare.  “And if I have to tie you to the saddle, I’ll do that too.  One way or another, you’re coming with me.”

Their gazes meet, one stubbornly determined, the other bright with fever.

Dean gives in first, muttering “I’ll do it for now.”

They ride for three or four hours.  Dean is coherent enough to eventually realize that it’s early afternoon, not early morning.  When he brings it up, Castiel doesn’t bother to answer him.

The fever returns late in the afternoon, but Castiel follows through on his earlier threat and ties Dean into the saddle.  He forces him to drink water constantly.  It’s impossible to pack him in the snow filled skins unless they stop, but each time they pull up to rest, he fears he won’t be able to get Dean back in the saddle again.

It makes him ache to see Dean bent over the saddle horn.  If he were fully conscious, the pain from his ribs would be excruciating.  They have to keep going though, so Castiel secures a thick roll of blankets across the saddle in front of him, giving him something to slump against.  

The situation seems hopeless, but as Castiel leads Baby and the two pack horses along the trail marked out on Dean’s crude map, it quits snowing.  The clouds overhead begin to break up and scatter.

 As the sun goes down and the stars begin to emerge, along with a full moon, Castiel makes a critical decision.  They won’t make camp that night, but will continue on.

It’s a terrible risk.  If he misses one landmark, one familiar rock or turn in the trail, it will be disastrous for both of them.  It might be hours before he discovers his mistake.  But stopping for the night means another delay in getting off the mountain, and Dean may not survive it.

As they ride, Castiel prays.  

Early evening is the most difficult.  The moon isn’t above the treetops yet, and there’s little light to guide them.  He slows their pace, but is forced to stop and double back more than once to make sure he’s on the right path.  When he finds a landmark just as Dean had drawn it, he wants to shout for joy but is too weary.

Dean had lost consciousness several hours earlier.  Castiel considers it a small blessing for him, if it eases any of his suffering.  But they’re racing against time, the elements… and the wolves.

He hears them in the distance, their bone chilling calls piercing the cold night air as the moon finally peeks over the trees.  The horses hear them too and become skittish.  Castiel checks his revolver, making sure it’s loaded.  Then he shortens the horses leads.  Dean doesn’t stir, remaining slumped over Baby’s neck.  They push on.

It becomes difficult to stay awake.  He’s so tired he aches with it, but he knows if he gives in to fatigue for just a moment, they could easily stray from their course.  

And the wolves are at their backs.  Several times, Castiel stops and listens.  Sound is deceptive in the forest, echoing off mountains and disappearing through the trees.  It’s difficult to determine where the sounds originate from, and the only thing he’s certain of is that the howls are growing louder, closer.  He keeps his eyes on the shadows, watching for any sign of movement.

Based on what he can hear, he thinks the wolves are very close now and may have picked up the scent of the horses.  As long as he and Dean are out in the open, they’re vulnerable to anything that comes at them.  

Throughout the night, Castiel guides the horses to follow the course of a mountain stream.  In the spring, runoff would turn it into a raging creek, but now the carved out banks are covered with fallen timbers and fresh snow.  Castiel watches for a place to camp, and he finally finds one on the bank that provides perfect shelter.  The bank rises eight feet at their backs, the water is in front of them, and the massive trunk of a downed tree provides a barrier from any approach upstream.

He ties the horses securely to the tree and starts a fire with the dry wood from the pack horse.  Then he goes back for Dean.

Dean hadn’t moved while Castiel set up camp.

Castiel works quickly, untying the ropes while wondering uncertainly how he’ll ever get Dean back astride if he doesn’t regain consciousness.  Dean slumps to the side, then slowly slips down until Castiel catches his weight.  It takes a great deal of effort, but he manages to half carry, half drag Dean to the fire.  He lays Dean down on dry furs and blankets and wraps him warmly.

Dean doesn’t wake, and fear clutches at Castiel’s heart.  He puts his ear on Dean’s chest and takes comfort from the rapid beating of his heart.  Lying there with his arms around Dean, Castiel gives in to tears that he’s been fighting against for days.

“You have to live, Dean.  You have to.”  He lifts his head, and caresses Dean’s bearded cheek.  He softly brushes his cool lips against Dean’s fevered ones.  “I can’t lose you.”

When Castiel stirs sometime later, it was just beginning to get light.  There’s no wind, not even the barest breeze.  The last few stars are fading overhead.  It’s completely, perfectly calm, silent, and still.  And a frisson of fear tingles along his limbs in silent warning.

They’re not alone.

He sits up, his hand closing over the rifle he’d set nearby.  The fire had burned low, and he carefully adds more wood, building it back up.

Dean is no better, but he’s no worse either.  He sleeps on.

Castiel gathers the blankets and furs more snuggly around Dean, but his eyes stay on the perimeter of the camp.  He gaze bounces between the trees on the other side of the water, and the fallen tree, and then downstream.  There’s nothing to see at first.  Everything is muted in shades of gray, shapes indistinct.

Perhaps it’s the sky gradually growing lighter, outlining shapes of trees and rocks.  Or perhaps it’s the glowing firelight that reflects back from golden eyes across the water.  He isn’t certain what he sees first--the fierce shaggy shapes, or the feral glow of their eyes.  But they are out there.  

Wolves.  The horses snort and shift nervously when they pick up the scent of predators.  

The first one boldly stalks across the water, approaching from upstream.  Castiel raises the rifle.  As the wolf comes at them, he fires.

The shot plops into the water, but the gun’s report is enough to halt the wolf midstream.  Its head lowers as it finds their scent, and its lips pull back from long fangs.

Castiel grabs his revolver, since he’s a much better shot with it.  He makes out at least a half dozen shapes in the growing light.  If they attack in a pack, as he’s heard that wolves often do, there will be no time to reload if he misses.

He considers cutting the horses loose, using them to draw away the wolves.  But there’s no guarantee the pack will follow them, especially if they’d already caught the scent of Dean’s wounds.  And if he turns the horses loose, their last hope of getting down the mountain will be gone.

The first wolf comes at them again.  He’s large, shaggy, and heavily built.  He snarls as he edges closer through the water, seeming to sense his prey’s vulnerability.  The others stay crowded on the far bank.

Castiel raises the revolver and fires just as the wolf lunges.  The blast catches him in the chest and he goes down, thrashing in the water.  The other wolves scatter and retreat, but not very far.  Their noses lift to the air as they pick up the scent of fresh blood.

He fires into the pack.  There’s a sharp yelp, and they scatter again, looking back at him warily.

Singly and in pairs, they repeatedly try to cross the water.  Castiel’s nerves grow taut as he tries to stay calm.  He picks his shots carefully, bartering for time and better light.  Again and again he fires into the pack, until the gun is empty, and then he reloads.

The pack circles around onto the high embankment behind him.  They try to leap over the fallen tree.  They lunge and splash across the water, only to turn back when he fires at them.

Castiel keeps the fire built up, in the hope of giving the wolves something else to be wary of.  He fumbles at the nearest saddlebag, but there are no boxes of shells, and he silently curses himself for not paying attention to what he’d brought from the horses.

He looks up, watching the indistinct shapes move restlessly back and forth on the other side of the stream.  There are at least three or four that now lay still in the snow and at the water’s edge.  But the rest won’t give up.

Fear and exhaustion makes his hands shake.  “No!” he screams at the wolves.  “I won’t let you have him!  Do you hear me?  I won’t!”

He fires into them, scattering them once more.  Then one separates from the pack and lunges across the water.  Castiel stares wide eyed as the wolf comes straight for them, as if sensing their helplessness.  He fires, but the revolver clicks with a sickening empty sound.  He throws it down, and picks up the rifle.  

All thoughts stop.  He refuses to think of what it will feel like to be torn apart by wolves, and he raises the gun to his shoulder.

As the wolf leaps, there’s a sharp crack of gunfire.  The wolf yelps in pain and falls into the water, only a few feet away.  It twitches and spasms, its tongue lolling between deadly fangs.  Then it goes perfectly still.

Castiel hadn’t pulled the trigger.  His head jerks up, his eyes wide.  A shadow breaks away from the trees, and there are several more shots.  Three more wolves fall, and the rest finally run away.

Several more men step into the circle of firelight, and Castiel stares in amazement at Cesar and Jesse, and several of their vaqueros.

The tall man with the rifle turns, and Castiel’s jaw sags in amazed recognition.  “Sam?”

Sam turns to him with an expression of relief that quickly morphs into fear when his eyes land on Dean.  He rushes to Dean’s side, kneeling down beside him and pressing a hand to his forehead.  His expression twists even more when he feels the heat radiating from Dean.  “How bad is it?”

Seeing Sam’s reaction to Dean’s condition destroys most of his relief at Sam’s presence.  “Very,” he says solemnly.  “He was shot twice.  The one in his side went through, but he might have broken ribs.” Sam’s grimace makes his heart twist.  “The wound in his thigh is the real problem.  The bullet is still in there.”

“Dammit,” Sam curses softly.  He rubs a hand over his eyes.  “I saw… I saw him like this...”

That explains Sam’s presence.  Castiel knows that without drinking demon blood, his powers are very weak, but he’s highly grateful for the gift that brought him to their rescue.  “Did you see...more than that?”  He can’t bring himself to define Dean’s future.  Not when one of the outcomes is so unthinkable.

Sam meets his eyes with a fearful look.  “No.”

Castiel closes his eyes and sends up another prayer.

Cesar joins them, and his brow furrows when he sees Dean’s condition.  “How long has he been like this?”

“Four days,” Castiel says.

“We must get him to the rancho.”

Cesar’s men build a stretcher from long poles cut from the fallen tree, and some of the skins Castiel brought from Alistair’s camp.  They wrap him in the thickest furs to protect him from the cold and from jolts and bumps.

Sam checks Dean’s wounds, since he has the most medical experience of anyone there.  “You did good,” he assures Castiel.  “Removing the bullet could have easily made him bleed to death.”

Seeing Dean feverish and unconscious, even as he’s lifted and moved, means Castiel doesn’t find Sam’s words all that reassuring.  “Will he live?”

“We will make him live,” Sam says firmly, then he mounts his horse and they begin their journey.

It begins to snow again on their way down the mountain.  They move as quickly as they can in the poor weather, while also being careful with Dean, who still lies unconscious on the stretcher.  They ride through the night, forgoing anything more than the briefest stops to rest, and they reach the valley late the next morning.

Everyone at the ranch is somber and quiet as they return.

Ellie quickly starts giving orders.  Pots are put on to boil, and bandages are prepared.  The older girls are set the task of feeding the weary vaqueros, and the smaller children huddle in corners, watching all the activity with wide, scared eyes.

When Ellie begins mixing a strange smelling concoction in a kettle on the stove, Sam pushes into the kitchen, drawing curious stares from everyone who didn’t expect him to leave Dean’s side.  He approaches Ellie and puts a leather pouch in her hand.  “Crush these herbs and mix them with warm juice from this.”  He produces what looks like a leaf from a cactus.  “Bind the wound with the poultice after removing the bullet.”

She looks down at the things Sam gave her.  “I know this cactus.  I have heard it has magic healing powers.”

Sam’s lips press together in a grim smile.  “I don’t know about magic, but I know from experience that it usually helps.”

Ellie nods.  “Then we’ll use it.”

Castiel follows Sam from the kitchen and hovers in the doorway of the room where Dean is laid out on a bed.  Dean isn’t sleeping, but he’s not conscious either.  Only the slow rise and fall of his chest, and the flush in his cheeks give any signs that he’s alive.

“Will the poultice work?” he asks.

Sam sighs and sits down in a chair next to the bed.  He beckons Castiel inside and waits until he also sits to answer. “I pray to god that it does.”

It’s not the reassurance Castiel is looking for.  He leans closer to the bed, and after only a small hesitation, takes Dean’s hand between his own.

Sam’s gaze linger on their hands.  But there is no disapproval in his eyes. 

Ellie joins them, holding a tray laden with bowls and rags and other supplies.  She sets it down on the end of the bed, and then turns to look at Castiel.  Her worried frown deepens.  “Castiel you are tired.  You should rest or you will be no help for him.”

“I won’t leave him,” Castiel announces stubbornly.

She’s not pleased with his answer, but she doesn’t waste time arguing.  “Very well, then you may help hold him down.  You too, Sam.  I’ll need both of your strength if he wakes up.”

Dean doesn’t wake up.  He remains unconscious and deathly still through the whole operation.

Ellie finds the bullet easily, even though it is deep; near the bone.  She removes it, careful not to cause any more damage.  Then she closes the wound with precise stitches, working tirelessly in the light of several lanterns.  She applies the green, pasty salve made with the ingredients Sam gave her, then wraps the leg with clean bandages.

All that any of them can do now is wait.  And pray.

Fever from the poison ravages Dean’s body.  He alternately burns up, then goes ice cold.  His ragged breathing fades in and out.  Twice Castiel fears he might be gone, but Dean fights his way back each time, clinging to Castiel’s hand.

Castiel refuses to leave his side.  He speaks to Dean, uncaring what Sam hears.  He holds Dean’s hand tightly, afraid that if he lets go, Dean will slip away from them.

Shadows lengthen in the room.  It grows dark outside.

Several times Ellie brings him food.  It’s not until Sam joins in on the browbeating that he gives in and chokes down a few warm tortillas.

Things continue that way for two days.  Ellie fusses after Castiel’s health, but no amount of argument, even from Sam, can convince him to leave for even a few hours of sleep.  Sam is with him most of the time, although he does leave now and then to nap.  He always returns with food, coaxing Castiel to eat a few bites each time.

Castiel loses all track of time, so when he suddenly jerks awake, he has no sense of reality or what day it is, or even the hour.  He lifts his head, and finds himself alone with Dean.  There’s a blanket draped over his shoulders that wasn’t there in his last lucid memory.  He blinks, trying to understand what woke him.

Then he realizes that the hand under his is cooler, and Dean’s breathing no longer wheezes so roughly in his chest.  The apples of his cheeks are no longer flushed an angry red, and his skin is less drawn and parched.

“Dean?” he says softly.  There’s still no response, but the fever has finally broken.

Tears sting Castiel’s eyes as hope rises in his chest.  Overcome, he crawls onto the bed with Dean and kisses his forehead and then his cheek and then his cool lips.  Careful not to jostle Dean’s injuries, Castiel settles down on the bed next to Dean and rests his head on his shoulder.

Sam finds him like that some time later.  He’s vaguely aware of being lifted, carried somewhere else and put on a soft surface.  But exhaustion has taken its toll and he sleeps.

He’s dazed and confused when he wakes.  It takes a few minutes to piece together his memories of the last few days, and when he does, he leaps from the bed and rushes out of the room.

In the hall he finds Amara leaving the room across from his own, a shallow basin and shaving supplies in her hands.  He catches a glimpse of Dean in the bed before the door is closed.  Dean is asleep, but the heavy growth of his beard is gone, revealing that his color is much better.  Sam sits at his side, and he looks less haggard with worry.

“How is he?” he asks.

Amara looks up at him, her dark eyes filled with many emotions.  She gives him a long look from head to toe, her lips pursed in disapproval.

Castiel is suddenly painfully aware of his own disheveled appearance.  He’s refused to take any time for himself, and he must look dreadful in his torn and filthy clothes, and his raggedly unkempt beard.

“Sam says he will live,” she answers flatly.

Castiel tries to smother his annoyance with the girl.  “Has he awakened yet?”

Amara brightens.  “Sí, earlier this morning.  When I was with him.”  Apparently her feelings for Dean are still strong, despite his rejection of her attention.

“Ah, bueno!” Ellie says happily as she comes around the corner, breaking the tension in the small space.  “You’re awake at last.  I was worried I would have two invalids on my hands.”  She shoos Amara away, reminding her to complete her chores.  Then she clamps a hand on Castiel’s arm and practically drags him to the kitchen.

She immediately shoves a tortilla filled with meat in his hands.  “Eat.  Build up your strength.”

“Is he really better?” he asks hopefully.

Ellie watches him expectantly, and only answers when he takes a bite of food.  Then she smiles warmly.  “Yes, much better.  It seems Sam’s medicine worked a miracle.  The swelling in the wound has gone down, and so has his fever.”

Castiel is so grateful that he’s overcome with emotion.  He swallows the food in his mouth with some difficulty, and closes his eyes against the sting of tears.  He shields his face behind his hand, and struggles to regain his composure.

He feels Ellie’s gentle touch on his shoulder.  “It’s all right to cry.  We came very close to losing him.”

A few tears slip down his cheeks, but he manages to regain his control after a few shuddering breaths.  He lifts his head and gives Ellie a wobbly smile.  “Thank you.”

Her smile is just as unsteady.  “Eat.  Please.  We are worried for you as well.”

He responds by finishing his tortilla, and gratefully accepts a second one when she puts it in front of him.  

“I think I should bathe,” he says when she tries to give him a third.  “I want to see him, but--” he wrinkles his nose and looks down at himself, “--not like this.”

Ellie chuckles warmly.  “There is water for your bath already prepared.  I’ve had it heating for two days.  Take the food with you.”  She waves a spoon at him, shooing him in the direction of the storage room off the kitchen that serves as a bathing room.

Castiel shoves half the tortilla in his mouth, and hurries into the other room.  He hurries to undress and slips into the tub.  He winces as the warm water meets the sore flesh across his back, and he sinks deeper to soak the welts.  The heat begins to ease the pain after a few minutes, and then he proceeds to scrub himself thoroughly.  Twice.  Ellie brings him clean clothing and shaving supplies, and by the time he’s finished, he feels human again.

And eager to see Dean.  Ellie stops him on his way through the kitchen and gives him a tray of tea and broth for Dean in case he wakes up.

When Castiel opens the room, Sam’s head comes up, and he smiles in relieved welcome.  “You look much better,” he says, standing to take the tray from Castiel and put it on a small table near the bed.  “More like a Pinkerton agent, and less like a mountain trapper.”

Castiel chuckles softly.  It’s not lost on him that things must be looking more hopeful for Dean if Sam is teasing him.  But he sobers when he looks down at the sleeping man on the bed.

“Is he really going to recover?” he asks softly.

Sam sighs, and he nods.  “In time.  The shot in his side is healing well, although the broken ribs are going to hurt like a bitch for a while.  The leg will take even longer.”  He slumps back down in his chair, and runs a hand through his hair, which immediately flops back into his face because he’s let it get too long again.  “I’m just praying he won’t lose his leg.”

Castiel’s heart tightens.  When the infection set in, he’d known the risk.  He settles down in the extra chair, and watches Dean’s sleeping features.  “He seems too stubborn to do something like that.”

That earns a bark of laughter from Sam.  “That gives me hope.”

They share another smile, and they fall quiet for a few minutes.  Guilt eats at Castiel as he watches Dean sleeping.  If he had died, it would have been his fault.  If he lives, but loses his leg, that will also be his fault.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sam says “don’t blame yourself, Cas.  Dean made his own decision to go with you.  The stubborn bastard always makes his own decisions.”

“But it _is_ my fault.  If I hadn’t been so determined to get Alistair…”

“Dean and I probably would have died in Tombstone,” Sam says firmly.  “And if for some reason we didn’t, he’d probably scrape up the courage to go after Alistair himself eventually.  He doesn’t like to leave hunts unfinished.”

Castiel looks up curiously.  “He’s hunted Alistair before?”

“It’s how Alistair caught him,” Sam says.  “And because Dean had the Colt with him, I didn’t have a way to stop Alistair myself.”

“You would have killed Dean to kill Alistair if you had it?”

Sam is quiet for a long moment.  “No.”

The answer isn’t surprising.  Castiel isn’t sure he would be able to pull the trigger on Dean either.  Even the idea of having to face that choice fills him with revulsion.  

“Alistair almost caught him again because of me,” he says.  “The Comancheros took me, and Dean came after me.”

“Then he was willing to accept the risk for you.” Sam meets his surprised gaze steadily.  “You can’t blame yourself for that either.”

“If he’d died though…” Castiel shakes his head.  “How could I not blame myself?  How could _you_ not?”  He rubs a hand over his face, overcome with emotion once again.  “Sam, if you hadn’t shown up when you did… he would have died.”

“He might have died without _you_ ,” Sam said.  “You can circle around like this forever, and it’ll drive you mad.  I don’t blame you.  I _wouldn’t_ blame you.  This is what the life of a Hunter is like.”  A smile tugs at one side of his mouth.  “Welcome to the family.”

That last shocks Castiel out of his spiral, and he blinks at Sam.  “Family?”

Sam’s smile widens, transforming his whole face and smoothing the lines of worry and fatigue from his features.  “Yeah, Cas.  You’re family.”

Unsure how to respond, Castiel says nothing.  But Sam seems to understand that it’s a little too much for him to talk about and lets the silence fall between them again.

After a while, Sam yawns so wide Castiel hears his jaw pop.  He stretches and rubs his eyes.  “I’m going to go nap for a while,” he says as he stands.  He pats Castiel firmly on the shoulder before he leaves the room. 

Castiel sits with Dean for a few hours.  Dean rouses occasionally, although he only looks at Castiel with dull eyes and no recognition.  But he doesn’t resist when Castiel cradles his head and spoons broth into his mouth.  He slips back to sleep quickly.

His wounds are healing.  The bullet holes in his side are neatly closed, and heavy bandages hold his ribs so they can also continue to heal.  The infection that had swollen his thigh to almost double its normal size has abated.  The ugly discoloration is fading.  Castiel changes the bandages himself, and applies fresh salve.

In those quiet hours that Castiel sits with Dean, he has a great deal of time to think.

He’s finally had his revenge, and he has the proof he needs--Alistair’s distinctive black steel revolver with the gleaming mother of pearl handle etched with notches.  One for each law man he’s claimed to have killed.  The men who had ridden with Alistair were dead as well.  It wasn’t the end of the Comancheros, but the largest band of them, and hopefully the rest of the demons, were gone now.  

Thanks to Dean.  

Castiel owes him a debt that can never be repaid.  Dean had saved his life, and made it possible to avenge his brother’s death.  He could not have done it without him.  But the cost was so high.

As he sits beside Dean, holding his hand, he faces that he very nearly got both of them killed because of his need for revenge.  Emmanuel wouldn’t have wanted that for Castiel, or for Dean.  His brother had too big of a heart, and it would break at the idea of someone risking their life over him.  Castiel has always known that, but he ignored the niggling doubt, determined to exact justice on his brother’s behalf.  

He thinks about that moment on the mountain when he realized it didn’t matter any more.  That the only thing that matters is the fact that he loves Dean and can’t bear to see him die.

He owes Dean so much.  Loves him so much.  For reasons he understands, and others he doesn’t.  Perhaps it all comes down to the fact that everything he’d really been trying to find for so long--was so certain he’d have when Alistair was dead--he’d found with Dean.

Losing Emmanuel had changed Castiel.  Finding Dean had changed him again.  He’ll never be quite the same.

“All because of you, Dean,” he whispers, as he brushes Dean’s hair back from his sweaty forehead.

Yes, he owes Dean a great deal.  And he intends to repay that debt, just as he’d promised.  That is partly why he has to leave.  To make certain Dean and Sam get their pardons.

It also has to do with what had happened between them.  He loves Dean, but never once had Dean spoken of his feelings for Castiel.  Not directly to him, anyway.  The words he’d spoken to Sam before they’d left the ranch echo in Castiel’s mind.  Dean doesn’t have room in his life for Castiel.  And Sam’s assurance that he’s family doesn’t negate that.

The hunt is over, done with.  They are from different worlds, and being together as lovers would be difficult.  Just because Cesar and Jesse have found a way to be together doesn’t mean that kind of relationship will work for Castiel and Dean.

He slips his fingers into Dean’s hair as he leans over him.  He kisses Dean tenderly, cradling his face between his hands.  A single tear slips down his cheek and spills onto Dean’s.  He kisses him goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter! :)


	30. Chapter 30

Castiel walks down the steps of the Arizona Territorial governor’s office and crosses the plaza at the center of town.  He carries a hand-drafted copy of the full pardon the governor had just signed for Dean and Sam.

His next stop is _The Miner_ to see its editors.  It’s the only daily newspaper in the territory with a large circulation, and equally large influence.  He gives them the story of the year, the death of Alistair White, making sure the Winchesters are both credited in the outlaw’s demise.  He also makes sure the article includes the information that their assistance to the Pinkerton National Detective Agency earned them both full pardons.

The editors are thrilled with the story, and Castiel knows that news of the pardons will spread quickly.

After his visit with the newspaper staff, he goes to the local Wells Fargo dispatch office.  He sends a copy of the pardons to Marshal Earp in Tombstone, asking him to make sure the brothers get it.

The following morning, he leaves his hotel and boards the stage for a half day ride North to the railhead.  

As he stands on the railway platform, a chill wind cuts through his clothing.  He still feels odd in his own suits.  The tailored wool pants, and the waistcoat under his jacket feel confining.  The new bowler hat he’d purchased doesn’t shade his eyes properly.  He misses the warmth of his duster, and the comfort of the soft leather boots Dean had given him.

They’re carefully packed in his luggage.  Although he doesn’t know when he’ll have the opportunity to wear them again.

“Ticket, sir?” the conductor calls out as Castiel starts to board.

“Yes, of course.” Castiel hands him his newly purchased ticket, and the man leads him to his seat.

“I see you’re going to St. Louis.  Is that your home?” the man asks politely.

Castiel smiles weakly.  “I’m on my way to Philadelphia to visit family.  But Denver is my home.”  The words feel wrong on his tongue.

“Well, have a pleasant trip, sir.” The conductor politely taps the bill of his cap.  “Maybe you’ll come back to us someday.”

The way he says it makes Castiel look up.  _Come back to us._

A painful memory plays in his memory.

_Castiel places his brother’s rosary in Sam’s palm, and gently closes his fingers around it.  “Give this to him for me.  Maybe its protective magic can help him heal.  And if not, it will make me feel better about leaving.”_

_“Why now?” Sam asks, his expression crestfallen._

_“I need to get your pardons.”_

_Sam shakes his head.  “That can wait, if you want to stay with Dean until he recovers.  We’re safe here.”_

_Castiel doesn’t say that he wants to stay forever, and that’s why he needs to leave now.  He only shakes his head, and gives a flimsy excuse that Sam seems skeptical of but doesn’t argue against._

_“Well, when you’re finished,” Sam says, “You’re welcome to come back to us.”_

Castiel’s smile turns wistful as he refocuses on the conductor.  “No, I don’t think so.  But thank you anyway.”

The man leaves him alone after that, and Castiel looks out the windows at the nearby mountains, and the silvery glimmer of the Verde River.  The view brings him memories of other mountains, and a crystal clear mountain pool.  It seems like a whole other world, lived in another life.

“No,” he repeats in a whisper.  “I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

The train carries him to St. Louis, where he boards another that takes him to Philadelphia.  Aunt Naomi is delighted to have him home, even if she only shows it with a formal kiss on the cheek, and a comment that he looks too thin and could use a haircut.  But he can see the warmth and welcome in her eyes, and he’s glad to be home, even if only for a few days.

Which is about how long he lasts before he itches to return to Denver.  

Aunt Naomi is a dear, sweet lady under her formidable facade.  But they are very different people.  She had never understood her nephews’ desires to travel West.  For the entire two days he’s in Philadelphia she tries to convince him not to leave.  She alternately lectures, pleads, or tries to shame him into staying.

“After all, the West is wild and unpredictable.  And I have the most dreadful time explaining to my friends why my only nephew has abandoned me to go live in the wilderness.”

Castiel rolls his eyes.  Denver is hardly wilderness, but he’ll never convince her of that.  He’s already tried more than once in the years that he’s lived there to get her to visit, but she’s set her mind against the place.

Naomi ignores his insolence and pauses only for a breath before continuing her tirade.  “And of course, it’s moving West that killed your dear brother.”

That’s it.  The straw that breaks the camel’s back.

As far as Castiel is concerned, that remark makes it clear that his aunt Naomi could never understand the dark things that move about in the world.  Creatures that inhabit cities and villages alike.  And that Emmanuel’s journal entries are not the ramblings of a madman, but the lessons learned by a budding Hunter.  A hero.

And Castiel has every intention of following in his brother’s footsteps.  He’s aware of the risks, but he’s better prepared, thanks to the Winchesters.

As much as he loves her, he cannot live Naomi’s kind of life.  He’s certain that within a week, immersed in his aunt’s schedule of society parties, teas, balls, cotillions, and coming out parties, he’ll go stark raving mad.  He may have been raised among Philadelphia’s Main Line, but he has no more in common with them than an Appaloosa does with a carriage horse.

What is there to discuss with them?

_Yes, the veal is quite delicious.  Did you know that there are men who can turn into animals?  They hunted me in the desert…”_

Or… “ _Of course I’d love to come to tea Thursday afternoon.  I can tell you about the demon I killed.  He abducted me, threatened to possess me, competed for me in a knife throwing contest, and horse whipped me...._

_...how did I do it? With a knife inscribed with mystical symbols, of course.”_

And on the occasion of someone’s betrothal… _“My dear, how fortunate you are to find such an eligible gentleman.  I know you’d set your cap for me, but I wouldn’t make you happy since I prefer the company of men._

_By the way, have I told you about Dean Winchester?  He’s an outlaw, and my lover while we were out on the trail in the territories and Mexico…_

_...Where is he now?  Someplace in Mexico, I think._

_No, I’m certain I’ll never see him again.  You see, we’re from different worlds…”_

He snorts at the silliness of his imagined conversations.  There’s no one in Philadelphia he can share these things with.  He certainly won’t be telling any of them about the evil creatures that exist in the world.  He would likely end up ostracized for skirting the edges of madness.

And admitting his love for a man?  Well, that would be the last nail in the coffin of his social life.

He has no regrets about what happened between him and Dean.  But the journey through the wilderness of the territories, Indian country, and the mountains of Mexico have changed him.  He’s less tolerant of the constant matchmaking and the pettiness of Philadelphia society.  He wants none of that for himself.

More than once, he entertains himself with imagining what everyone’s reaction would be if he appeared at the opera in his wide brimmed hat, duster, denim pants, and knee high leather boots.  Or if instead of riding in his aunt’s carriage, he leaped astride one of the horses and rode it to an evening gala.

That would certainly set Main Line Philadelphia on its very proper ear.

And maybe they’d be correct if they gossip about the stability of his mind.

He might be able to put up with all of it, if he weren’t plagued with by aching loneliness.  There’s hardly a spare moment to himself while his aunt tows him from one social function to another, but he doesn’t know these people anymore.  They don’t know him.  And it is incredibly isolating.

His aunt’s elegant mansion feels confining.  Rounds of parties and balls and trips to the theater leave him restless.  He’s ill at ease in his formal attire.  

He misses the cleaner air of the West.  He longs to look to the horizon and see it crowned with majestic purple mountains and wide open skies.

And he misses something else that he’s lost, as vital as air.  But that he won’t find even if he returns to Denver.

At least his work is still waiting for him there.  He’s always found it fulfilling, even when he was so driven to find Emmanuel’s killers.

His life in Denver had always felt more real, more grounded and honest.  He has a purpose there.  And with his new knowledge of the supernatural, he can do even more good works.

Naomi is absolutely beside herself when Castiel announces that he’s leaving.  But Castiel had been through this before, when he’d moved away the first time.  It’s easier this time.  The decision is easier.  And when Naomi discovers that all her pleading and scolding can’t dissuade him, she accompanies him to the train station.  She says goodbye with a tight hug--a dramatic emotional display from her--and instructs him to write often.

A week later he’s in William Pinkerton’s office at the Denver headquarters, humbly requesting to return to duty.

* * *

Dean stands at the window of the cabin, watching vaqueros herding mares and yearling colts into the pastures.  Frost coats the ground between the paddocks and cabins, and gleams on fence rails.  As the spirited yearlings run, their breaths gust out in clouds of steam in the chilly morning air.

Movement catches his gaze, and he watches Sam pat Baby’s neck before he walks toward the cabin, leaving her tethered to the corral fence.  Sam’s horse stands at her side, looking sleepy in the early morning gloom.

A few minutes later, footsteps sound behind Dean.  Sam pauses in the room’s doorway.  “Are you ready?”

Dean turns carefully, balanced on one good foot and the crutches Cesar made for him.  He’s still weak, and too thin, his body only beginning its slow recovery after weeks of fever, and a second operation on his leg.

It hadn’t healed as well as it should have with Sam’s poultices, and eventually a physician had been fetched.  It was a three day journey on a fast horse, and by the time he’d arrived, Dean had been near death again.

He’s been slow to recover, and he can’t walk without crutches yet.  He hates it.  Hates being unable to move around easily.  He hates feeling so weak and useless.  But he keeps those thoughts to himself, because he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful.

He’s alive.  He’s still got the leg, because Sam wouldn’t let the doctor take it without checking for more lead in his thigh first.  And the crutches won’t be needed forever.  He’ll be able to ride again someday.

If only all those blessings weren’t overshadowed by another loss.  One that he refuses to talk about.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he responds dully.  It takes too much energy to muster up any enthusiasm for the prospect of going home.

“We could stay awhile longer,” Sam says.  He moves further into the room, sitting in the chair that has been at Dean’s bedside for weeks, and looking up at Dean through his too-long hair.  “Cesar and Jesse and Ellie have all said they’d like us to stay as long as we want.”

Dean turns away from his brother, not wanting to deal with the argument again.  “They’ve mentioned it to me a few times too.  But it’s time.  I need to go.  You can stay if you want.”

Sam snorts derisively.  “I’m not letting you go off on your own like this.”

“Because I’m crippled?”

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam mutters.  Then louder “yes, because you’re _still recovering._   And I miss home too, you know.”

Guilt makes Dean drop his defenses, and he sighs.  “I can’t believe we’re going back.”

“Me too,” Sam says wistfully.  “It’s been so long.”

“You don’t regret retiring do you?” Dean asks.

“Hunters don’t retire,” Sam points out. 

“Cesar and Jesse did.”

“You know they’ll go after any monsters that trespass in their territory.  And look at Bobby and Ellen… You know as well as I do that they can’t keep their nose out of a Hunt if something happens in the area.” He shrugs, then heaves himself to his feet.  “We’ll just have a home base.  A smaller territory to watch over.  It’s not up to us to protect everyone, everywhere.”

It certainly feels like it sometimes.  Maybe by the time Dean’s healed up enough, he’ll believe it enough to stay settled.  And if not… well, they’re going to be mighty busy for a while anyway, rebuilding the ranch.  

“We deserve a little peace too, sometimes,” Sam says.

Dean isn’t so sure about that, but he certainly wants it.  He’s willing to try.

He looks back out the window, his eyes tracing the towering wall of mountains.  Memories flood his heart with an aching longing that feels more crippling than his injuries.  

A hand on his shoulder pulls his attention away from the mountains where he’d both gained and lost something precious.  Sam’s sympathetic look needles him, silently begging him to talk.

“What?” he grunts, although he has a feeling he knows already.

“We don’t have to go straight home.”

“Sam, don’t.” 

When he’d awoken with a clear head the first time, he’d asked about Cas.  When Sam told him Cas had left, Dean had closed his eyes again without caring if he ever opened them again.  That feeling of loss and betrayal has only increased as his health improves.  Sensing what’s wrong as if it came to him in a vision, Sam had started hinting that they should go find Cas when Dean feels well enough to travel, at least to thank him for the pardons.  But Dean knows what his real motive is.

“Denver’s not that far out of our way.”

“Okay we’re done here.”  Dean shrugs Sam’s hand away, and begins to hobble slowly toward the door, hoping to leave this conversation behind him.  But Sam is like a dog with a bone.  And with his ridiculously long legs, Dean can’t outrun him even when he’s hale and healthy.  

“I know you don’t want to talk about Cas--”

“Could have fooled me,” Dean mumbles.  He tries to lengthen his strides, but the pain is too much.

“But I think you should let him explain himself--”

Dean nearly loses his balance whirling on his brother, but catches himself with a fist in Sam’s shirt.  To hide his weakness, he yanks Sam down to his level.

“I don’t need him to explain,” Dean growls, with more feeling than he’s had energy for in weeks.  “He made it pretty damn clear how he feels by leaving.”

"Did he?"  Sam looks down at Dean's wrist, and the carved beads wrapped around it.  "Then why would he leave that for you?"

"He still left, and if he doesn't want to be with me, I'm not going to track him down and drag him back.” Dean releases Sam, and resumes his slow journey.  

The rosary hangs heavy from his wrist, the cross bouncing lightly against the back of his hand with every movement.  Its presence angers him, reminding him exactly why he would have been better off not getting attached.  He’s a fool for thinking that maybe, just maybe, he’d found someone who would hold his heart safe.  

Cas hadn’t given Sam the impression that he planned on coming back.  He’d left the rosary for Dean with only the message to keep it for protection.  Dean had almost thrown it across the room.

But it’s too valuable to destroy, so he wears it for the protection it offers.  And as a reminder to guard his heart more thoroughly in the future.  

If it’s also a connection to Cas, no one needs to know that.  And he’s pretty good at lying to himself as well...

“Maybe you didn’t make it obvious that you'd want him to come back,” Sam says from behind him.

Dean goes still.  His thoughts fly to a warm mountain pool, showing him visions of Cas.  Eyes wide, lips swollen.  Chest heaving as Dean edged him closer and closer to--

He closes his eyes against the memory, but it doesn’t help.  His mind plays out the images against the inside of his eyelids.  Swallowing against the thickness in his throat, he says “I did.”

“And did you tell him that you love him?” Sam asks stubbornly.

Dean ignores the question, and walks out the door just as Jesse pulls the buckboard around in front of the cabin, giving him an excuse to ignore Sam.  Baby gets tethered to the back, and Dean’s saddle and gear is packed into the rear of the wagon.  It’s a reminder that he won’t be riding astride on the journey to Wyoming.

Ellie comes outside, wrapped in a thick shall against the cold air.  She looks up at Dean hopefully as she slides an arm around his waist in a half-hug.  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind and stay with us?”

He gives her his best effort at a smile and wraps an arm around her shoulders and rests his hair against her silky dark hair.  “No, it’s time for us to go.”  He kisses the top of her head, and pulls her a little tighter.  It will probably be a very long time before he sees her again.  “Take care of yourself for me, alright?”

“I will if you promise to take care of yourself as well,” she says.  The soft admonishment is accompanied by a smile and she rises up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.  “Vaya con Dios, Dean.”

Cesar and Jesse ride with them as far as the border of Sonora.  They say their farewells there, with promises to see each other when they can, and to write when they cannot.

At the border, Dean and Sam catch the stage north to Tombstone, with their horses trailing behind.  They both want to make sure the pardon is legitimate, so they don’t turn around in some backwater town and find themselves arrested and hanged for that reward money.

Virgil and Wyatt Earp welcome them enthusiastically.  “Well, boys, you survived!  And I’ve got your pardons right here.”  Virgil hands over a thick packet of paperwork.

It contains a copy for each of them, both with the Territorial governor’s signature, and that of the Pinkerton agent who witnessed the deeds that earned them the pardons.  Dean stares down at that name, his heart stuttering in his chest.

“Oh, and there’s also this,” Wyatt says as he slaps a folded newspaper over the pardon in Dean’s hand, blocking his view of Cas’ elegantly penned signature.  “That Pinkerton fella made sure everyone would know about the pardon.  Take a gander at that.”

Dean unfolds the paper and reads the name across the top.  _The Miner._   He’s seen his and Sam’s name in this newspaper before, and it’s never been good news.  But when he sees the front page story, his jaw sags.

“What is it?” Sam asks, peering over his shoulder.

“If even half of that article is true,” Wyatt says, “then you two are a couple of damn heroes.”

Dean knows Cas didn’t write the article himself, but it’s accurate, with little embellishment.  There’s nothing about the undead miners, or the skinwalkers, and certainly nothing about demons.  But the article tells of their journey south, into the mountains, and how the Winchesters were instrumental in taking down the notorious Alistair White and a small band of Comancheros.  The praise is glowing, and in a paper like _The Miner_ , it’s sure to turn their reputations around.

“Cas certainly went above and beyond,” Sam says after Dean relinquishes the paper and lets him read it himself.  “He could have just waited for the Marshals’ offices to get the updates.”

“He obviously wanted to make sure the news got out faster than that,” Virgil says.  “You got yourselves a damn fine ally in that man.”

“He’s our friend,” Sam says proudly.

Cas is much more than that to Dean.  Or at least Dean wanted him to be.

“You’re free men!” Virgil exclaims.  “And there’s another surprise for you.  Mr. Jameson arranged for you two to receive the reward money--ten thousand dollars!”

Dean and Sam exchange a look of wide-eyed surprise.

“Somehow I thought it would go to that sheriff out at Las Cruces,” Sam says.  “He trailed us into those mountains, but a friend of ours managed to get him lost.”

“Oh, he tried to get his hands on it,” Virgil assures him.  “He talked long and hard about how he was the one who tracked White down.  But that Pinkerton fella set everybody right.  And he had White’s revolver.”

“You talked to him?” Dean asks quietly.  He ignores the weight of Sam’s stare.

“Yeah, I wrote a letter for him to take to the governor.”

“How was he when you saw him?”  

Virgil and Wyatt exchange looks.  “He was just fine,” Virgil answers.  “Although Wyatt thought he seemed different somehow.”

“Different? How?”  He shouldn’t ask.  He doesn’t want to know anything.

He’s dying to know everything.

Wyatt shrugs.  “I don’t know.  All quiet like.  Not like before when he came in here like a ball of fire, real feisty and determined to have his way about things.”

Dean remembers Cas like that.  He’d found it frustrating at times, and amusing at others.  Now he just misses it.  “Did he say where he was headed?”

“Denver, I think,” Virgil answers thoughtfully.  “Said he has work to do, and that’s where he’s from, originally.”

Dean nods.  “Yeah, I suppose that would be where he’d be headed now that he got what he wanted.”

“And you got what you wanted,” Virgil adds.  “That pardon.”

Dean looks down at the pardon again and smoothes his thumb over Cas’ signature.  Had he gotten what he truly wanted?  What was really important?

“What’re you boys going to do now?” Wyatt asks.

“We’re heading north.  Wyoming Territory.”

“It’s mighty cold up there this time of year,” Virgil points out.

“Yeah, but it’s home.  And with this,” Dean holds up the pardon and for the first time in a while, his smile feels genuine, “we can go back now.”

They say their goodbyes and rent rooms at the hotel so they can get some rest.  The next morning as Dean and Sam leave the hotel, they pass a cobbler shop.  

A man stands admiring something in the paned-glass window.  For just a moment, he reminds Dean very strongly of Cas.  Maybe it’s the way his head is tilted, and the way his bowler hat sits over his brow.  Or perhaps it’s the angle of his shoulders as he leans forward to get a better look at whatever is displayed in the window.

Dean’s heartbeat picks up, and he quickens his stride as much as he can with the damn crutch.

The man looks up when Dean gets close, obviously surprised to find someone approaching him.  He smiles politely and touches the brim of his hat in greeting.  And Dean can see he’s not like Cas at all.  His skin isn’t the same sun-warmed hue, and the shape of his face is different.  And he doesn’t have those remarkable, deep blue eyes that had a way of looking past every one of Dean’s defenses.

As the man turns and walks away, Dean glances in the window to see what had caught his fancy.  He sees a pair of elegant men’s boots.  

They look out of place in a town like Tombstone.  Undoubtedly, it’s the latest fashion from St. Louis or some other big city.

Made of two types of leather, with pale spats over darker leather above the sole, they have a heel that wouldn’t exactly be practical on the boardwalks and dusty streets.  But what really catches his attention is the swatch of dark blue cloth laid over the ledge the boots sit on.  The deep blue color reminds him of bluebonnets.

When the morning stage arrives, Dean and Sam board it for the journey to the railhead.  At the train station they buy tickets with their reward money and have their horses loaded into one of the cattle cars.

They settle into their seats, ready for the trip north.  Dean stares out the window, and absently rubs his thumb over a carved wooden bead at his wrist.

* * *

It’s bitterly cold outside.  The windows of hotels, shops, and restaurants are frosty.  The high-altitude Denver air is crisp, filled with a soft flurry of snow.  Closed carriages churn the newly fallen fluff to slush.

Castiel rounds a corner just ahead of Operative Doug Stover, his boots slipping a little bit in the slush.

“Castiel, wait!”

“We’ll lose him.  He went down this alley.”

“If you say so.” Doug ducks down the alley and slowly walks the length of it.

Just as they reach the end, they see a shadow.  They both flatten themselves against the far wall, and wait.

“Let me go first,” Doug says, edging past him.  

Castiel catches his shoulder.  “Wait.”

Doug looks back at him in question.  Castiel reaches into his coat and pulls out a silver knife.  It’s not nearly as vicious looking as the knives Dean and Sam carried, it’s barely more than a dinner knife, but it’s effective as a deterrent against any beast sensitive to silver.  He flips it and presents the handle to his partner.  “Take this.”

“You don’t really think they’re _dangerous_ , do you?” Doug asks warily.  He takes the knife, and what little light filters down through the clouds catches on it and reflects on his face.

“I think it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“They’re just jewel thieves!”

Who never strike for a few days around the full moon, and Castiel has noticed that they have a habit of leaving plain silver chains and brooches behind when they pick through their victims’ valuables.  “Just humor me, Doug.  Please.”

Sighing, Doug settles the knife handle more comfortably in his hand.  “Well if they turn out to be something more than thieves, at least it’ll make this case more interesting.  I wonder when Mr. Pinkerton will send me on higher profile cases?”

Castiel smiles at the eager agent.  He remembers looking forward to being given more complex cases as well, and he’d been thrilled when he was no longer constricted to chasing footmen that wealthy ladies suspected of lifting jewelry from family safes.

“Don’t worry, you’ll graduate to harder cases soon enough,” he offers in reassurance.

“What about you?”

Castiel shrugs.  He has turned down many of the missions that might take him out of Denver.  Right now, he prefers to stay close to home.  It turns out that returning to his job isn’t quite as fulfilling as he’d hoped it would be.  So far he’s uncovered a few stranger cases, but no murders.  And something he’d learned from Sam, while studying John Winchester’s journal, is that they don’t kill monsters that don’t kill humans.  So he’s had no reason to expose any of the creatures he’s discovered.

“I’m content with recovering stolen jewels for now.  Tracking down Alistair White was enough of an adventure for me for a while.”

Doug looks at him like he’s not playing with a full deck.  “But you took down _Alistair White!”_

There’s movement at the end of the alley again.  Castiel hates to dampen his partner’s enthusiasm, but they’re on a case of their own.  “There he goes, into the back of that restaurant.  The owner could be a shill.  C’mon, let’s go.”

They rush inside, and their quarry leads them on a merry chase, but they eventually run him down.  They find one of Mrs. Mainwaring’s ruby earbobs, and also manage to catch the shill.  They send the restaurant owner for the constable, and Castiel talks Doug into letting him have a private moment with the thief, while they wait.

When Castiel presses the flat edge of his knife against the man’s hand, he hisses and the skin sizzles.  “What are you?” Castiel demands.

The man stares up at Castiel with wide, scared eyes.  “How did you know?” 

“You never take anything silver. And the robberies stop around the full moon.  Are you a werewolf?”

The man’s shoulders slump.  “I only eat animal hearts.  I don’t hurt humans, I swear!”

“You steal from them.”

“A man’s gotta make a living!”

Castiel sighs.  “Not by stealing.  Not anymore.”

“You’re not going to kill me?” the man asks warily.  

“No,” Castiel says.  “But I know what you are and who you are, so don’t give me a reason to.”

He gets effusive promises that he won’t ever see the man again, he’ll serve his time and leave the city.  The man even thanks him as the constable drags him away.

Doug gives Castiel a confused look.  “What an odd person he was.”

They’re congratulated by everyone in the outer offices upon their return to the three-story building owned by the agency.  Castiel lets Doug tell everyone the tale, smiling wryly as he makes a great fuss over Castiel’s participation.  

Despite the trainee’s exuberant praise, the victory feels hollow.  But Castiel has felt a deeply rooted dissatisfaction with everything pertaining to his job since he’d returned to it.  He’d hoped that having cases to take his mind off of the things he left behind in Mexico would give him some sense of accomplishment, if not fulfillment.  

There had been a spark of interest when he’d suspected this last criminal wasn’t human.  But the man had still been a simple thief.  Although Castiel is beginning to suspect that even if the werewolf had been a ravenous man eater, there still would have been an aching emptiness left unfulfilled by the hunt.  

There’s something else missing in his life.  Something he doubts he’ll ever be able to replace.

Doug doesn’t sound like he’s going to wind down any time soon, so Castiel is grateful when  Mr. Pinkerton’s personal secretary finds him and quietly informs him that their employer is in his offices and wants to see Castiel.  He slips away from the gathering to answer the summons.

“Good afternoon, Castiel,” Pinkerton greets him warmly.  “I understand you’ve broken the Mainwaring case.  Excellent work.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pinkerton,” Castiel replies.

“Please, sit down.”  He gestures to a chair across from him.  He’s a large man and seems to take up the entire width of the desk he sits behind.  “Of course, there will be the usual commendation for a job well done, but I’m already thinking in terms of your next assignment.”

“I still prefer to handle cases closer to the office rather than field assignments at this time,” Castiel reminds him.  

His excuse is that he’s been traveling so much for the last few years, that he’d like to reacquaint himself with the city of Denver.  But his real reasoning is that there is less here to remind him of his time with Dean.  He still spends far too much time thinking about the ex-outlaw, and he hasn’t yet learned how to control his thoughts.  

“I see,” Mr. Pinkerton says thoughtfully.  “We can have that conversation later, of course.  But I want to discuss a particular case right now.  I have a client in my private office.  We’ve spoken of his case at great length, and I believe you are the only agent to handle it.”

Castiel glances at the side door leading to the inner office.  Mr. Pinkerton rarely conducts business in there, only in extremely delicate situations.  Its separate entrance allows someone to come and go without entering the outer offices.

“Well of course,” he says uncertainly.  

“Very good!  He’s waiting now.  I’ve already told him of your qualifications.  You can speak with him about the case in my private suite.”

Castiel stands hesitantly.  “Certainly.  Thank you, sir.”

He crosses the office, and lets himself inside the private suite, closing the door behind him.  It’s like a sitting room, with elegant, richly upholstered furnishings all clustered before a fireplace with a hand carved mantle.  There’s a wide desk sitting in the back corner of the office, obscured in darkness.

A fire burns at the brick hearth, and the drapes are drawn at the windows to keep out the cold.  The only other light comes from a single lamp resting on a table, but it does little to fight back the shadows framing the room.

He frowns, wondering if Mr. Pinkerton’s special client might have chosen to leave.  He doesn’t see anyone in the room, and turns to go back out to the outer office.

“Mr. Jameson.”

He spins around, looking into the dark shadows around the desk.  “I’m sorry, I thought you might have left.”

When there is no immediate reply, his frown deepens.  He slowly approaches the desk.  “Mr. Pinkerton informed me you are in need of our agency.”

Again there is only silence.  If Mr. Pinkerton hadn’t already approved of the case, and the client, he might be uneasy.  Perhaps it is merely the delicacy of the case that makes the client so reluctant to speak out.  “I would be happy to help you in any way I can, but I would like to know more about the case.”

There’s a slight stirring from behind the desk, and a shifting of shadows as the mysterious client comes around to stand in front of it.  There’s something odd about the way he moves.  He sits on the edge of the desk, and speaks in a gruff whisper.  “I’m looking for someone.”

Castiel’s interest is piqued.  He’d done several missing persons cases in his first year as an operative and had found them boring at the time.  But now he finds them more intriguing.  He knows many more reasons why a person might disappear than mere kidnapping, or running away.  Maybe this will be the case that dispels the ever present aura of discontent.

“Very well, we’ll need the usual background information.  What can you tell me about the person you’re looking for?”

There’s a slight hesitation, making him wonder if the client’s circumstances are somehow painful.  Then, still obscured in the shadows, he speaks again in a whisper, but softer so that Castiel is forced to lean forward to hear him.

“He’s about your age.  And very handsome.”

Castiel blinks at the unexpected descriptor.  “Go on.”

“He’s very refined, dignified.  A gentleman.”

“I see.”  That would certainly be an explanation for the need for discretion.  The way this man describes the missing person makes Castiel suspect he might have tender feelings for them.  If the men are lovers, it wouldn’t do to make the affair public knowledge by bringing the case to the main offices.

“He’s very well educated, always knows the right things to say.  But I’ve heard him swear like a soldier, and he can shoot the center of a nickel from 50 paces, although he needs to work on his quick draw.”

Castiel’s brow wrinkles.  There’s something about the client’s voice that makes his heart beat faster.  Something familiar.  He steps closer, and the angle of the light changes.  His breath catches in his throat.  “Please, go on,” he says roughly.  

“He can be very stubborn and headstrong, even when he’s wrong about something.  He’s also the most generous, bravest, most passionate man I’ve ever known,” the client continues in a whisper.

Castiel inches forward.  He catches the scent of leather, and cigarillo smoke.  It fills his head with heady memories.  His vision is adjusting to the dim light, but it shifts as the flames dance in the hearth, and he isn’t sure he can trust his eyes.

“I’m sorry I have to ask this, but it is necessary…This man, is he--" His voice catches, and he swallows to moisten his suddenly dry mouth when he continues.  “Was he your lover?”

The mysterious client’s silence seems to give him that answer.  Then after several long seconds he says “I hope to God he still wants to be.”

No longer a whisper, that voice is gruff, full of emotion, and dearly familiar.

Stunned, Castiel takes another halting step forward.  Dean reaches from the shadows, his arm slipping around Castiel’s waist as he pulls him up against a firm chest.

There’s no time to react, to escape, much less to think.  He’s pulled full length against the man he’d been dreaming of every night since he’d left Mexico.

Dean’s mouth crushes over his, with a frightening hunger.  Castiel’s lips part, half in question, half in surrender, and Dean’s tongue slips past them.

He pulls Cas closer, taking his weight against his body as he sits on the desk.  His other hand plunges into Cas’ hair, desperate to pull him closer. 

“Dean!” Cas’ voice is a ragged whisper as their lips part, caress, and come together again.

Overwhelmed with the need to claim, Dean kisses Cas’ cheek, his temple, the curve of his stubbled jaw.  He trembles with the need that pours through him, and the effort to maintain his restraint.  

What if Cas pulls away?  What if he walks away again?

He hungrily traces the angle of a perfect, high cheekbone, flicks his tongue against the curve of Cas’ ear, strokes the line of his jaw to his neck.  His fingers play at the collar of Cas’ shirt, eager to slip inside.  He wants to push Cas down onto the plush carpets, to feel Cas naked and hot under him.

Any doubts that he shouldn’t have come wavered the moment he saw Cas, and were obliterated the moment he touched him.  

His hands gently cup Cas’ jaw, and he lifts his head so he can look into those deep blue eyes that put a field of blooming flowers to shame.  “Why did you leave me?” he whispers hoarsely.

“I didn’t think…” Castiel kisses Dean, hungry for another taste of him.  “You didn’t need me… didn’t want me…”

“How can you think that?” 

“I heard you tell Sam that we’d go out separate ways after the hunt.” Castiel’s voice drops to a pained whisper.  “That we’re from different worlds.”

Groaning, Dean lets his head drop forward to rest against Castiel’s.  “You heard that?” He laughs brokenly.  “Goddamn, it was a stupid thing to say.  I didn’t mean it, I just wanted to get Sam to quit sticking his nose in my business.”

Hope rises up in Castiel’s heart.  “Then you don’t think…”

Dean lifts his head and cradles Castiel’s face in his hands.  Firelight reflects in the depths of his eyes, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of his expression.  “Cas, you idiot.  My world revolves around you.  I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if you’ll let me.” 

He leans in and presses a tender kiss against Castiel’s lips.  “I love you, Cas,” he whispers, breath hot against Castiel’s lips.  “That’s what I came here to tell you, even if you don’t want to hear it.”

Castiel surges against Dean, kissing him with every spark of joy and elation he feels at those words.  He wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders, and holds him tight.  And then he starts to laugh, which forces him to release Dean’s lips.  “I love you too, you jackass.”

Dean pulls Cas hard against him, trying to absorb his heat, the life and vitality that are so innately a part of him.  His hands slip down to Cas’ hips, pulling him even closer, molding their bodies together.  His mouth closes over Castiel’s again, making love to him with lips and tongue and teeth, in all the ways his body wants to.

They both realize around the same time that if they don’t calm down now, they’re going to embarrass themselves if Mr. Pinkerton decides to check on them.  They slowly draw apart, but not far, keeping their hands clasped together between them.  

Castiel’s gaze carefully inspects what he can see of Dean in the dim light.  He’s thinner, but he seems to be recovered.  His hair is neatly trimmed and his beard is gone, giving his features a hint of youthfulness while still being ruggedly handsome.  He’s dressed well, in a tailored gray suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders.  He would look at home in Naomi’s parlor.  It’s no wonder Dean has been given preferential treatment for his case.  

A bit of turquoise catches his eye, and he nudges Dean’s sleeve back with his thumb.  A shaky sigh slips from between his lips.  “You kept it.”

“I thought I was supposed to?” Dean asks with a quirked brow.  

Castiel smiles.  “I’d hoped that it would protect you and... remind you of me.”

“It did,” Dean says gruffly.  He unwinds the rosary from his wrist and wraps it around Castiel’s.  “I needed it.  Because I’m a stubborn bastard sometimes.  But I think it belongs with you now that I don’t need it anymore.”

The beads are warm against Castiel’s wrist, and his eyes sting.  It hadn’t been a difficult decision to leave it behind with Dean and Sam, but he has missed it and is glad to have it back.

He returns to his inspection of Dean, and his gaze wanders lower.  Dean had been sitting on the desk the entire time.  As soon as Castiel realized it was him, he was afraid to look at Dean’s leg, expecting the worst.

His heart leaps with relief.  Dean’s leg is whole and complete, though carefully braced against the edge of the desk.  And next to him rests a cane.  He can walk.

But even the worst wouldn’t have mattered to him.  He would take Dean Winchester as he was.  Still, it would matter to Dean, and Castiel rejoices that his body remains whole.

When Dean notices Cas’ gaze move down to his leg, he grimaces.  “I kept it, but the damn thing ain’t much use yet.”

“What will you do now?” Cas asks quietly, trailing his fingers over the dove gray wool trousers covering Dean’s healing leg.  “You can’t hunt like this…”

“Take a well earned sabbatical.  I think I’ve earned it,” Dean says with a wry smile.  It fades, and he continues more somberly “Sam and me, we want to rebuild the ranch back home, in Wyoming.”

“By yourselves?” 

“We’ve got friends that are going to help.”  He pauses and looks down at Castiel’s hand, tightly clasped between his own.  His thumb rubs small circles against Cas’ skin.  “It’s going to be a lot of hard work.  The main ranch house was gutted out by fire.  But the corrals and paddocks are still standing.  We may need to build a barn.”

“So you’re retiring from hunting?” Castiel asks.  

A slow smile spreads across Dean’s face.  “Well now, I didn’t say that.  Not even sure I could quit if someone really did chop off my leg.”  His smile turns melancholy.  “There’s monsters everywhere, Cas.  Unfortunately, there are plenty in Wyoming.”

Dean sobers completely, and his hands tighten around Castiel’s.  “I was going to ask if you would join us, but now I see the life you’ve got here...”

“Dean,” Castiel disentangles their hands so he can cup Dean’s face, tilting it up until Dean’s gaze meets his.  “Ask me.”

Blinking up at him, Dean searches Castiel’s face, as if looking for the answer in his expression.  His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his voice is barely above a whisper.  “What do you say, Cas?  Want to come back to Wyoming with me and build a home?”

There’s really no decision to make.  He felt out of place and uncomfortable in Philadelphia, and his job no longer holds the same satisfaction it did before, so Denver doesn’t have a claim on him either.  Castiel knows that even if he has to give up hunting altogether, his home is wherever Dean is.  And he can’t imagine Dean anywhere other than on a ranch near the mountains, raising horses with spotted rumps.

Castiel brushes his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip, still damp and a little swollen from Castiel’s kisses.  The hollow space under his sternum fills until the pain of loss is replaced with the ache of being too full.  The idea of building a home together with Dean, with his own hands, sounds like the best kind of dream.  It’s the life he didn’t know he wanted until Dean laid it out in front of him.

He must take too long to answer.  Dean scowls. "Dammit, Cas, am I going to have to throw you over my saddle and carry you back to Wyoming with me?”

Tenderly, and with all the love overflowing from his soul, Castiel presses kisses against Dean’s brow, until the furrows smooth out.  He kisses a path across Dean’s freckled cheeks, and then finally on his lips, smiling now instead of pouting.

When he lifts his head, Dean blinks up at him, dazed and hopeful.

Castiel smiles warmly, fondly.  “Take me home, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray! The project of my heart for the last 6 years is FINISHED! Now I can take a break!
> 
> (She says, even as she plans her next story, because she's a LIAR.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Hunters Caress](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399967) by [WingsandImpalas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsandImpalas/pseuds/WingsandImpalas)




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